Ashen and Sober Skies
by zhaneraal
Summary: AS OF HBP, THIS IS NOW AU: Snape has been found in Voldemort's dungeons, tortured and broken. Can the care of his colleagues heal him?
1. Prologue

The Usual Disclaimers. The writing is mine, the characters are not, with the exception of the few who are primarily unnamed in the Prologue.

Prologue

The dungeons were dark and cold. They smelled of molding straw, blood, feces, and decaying flesh. No light, save that of the occasional lantern, had touched these stones since the dungeons were built. If one stood perfectly still, as the Auror who made these observations did, one could hear naught but the steady drip of water from somewhere towards the back of the dungeons.

The Auror brightened the light at the tip of her wand, and held it in front of herself like a torch. The darkness of Voldemort's dungeons seemed unphased by the appearance of such brightness, instead of retreating from it, the darkness seemed to take the light as a challenge. The dark tunnels and halls that ran from this central room seemed darker, more malevolent. The Auror shivered in spite of herself, but chose the tunnel to the left to begin exploring first. Before making her way down it, she called up the hole to where her fellow Auror's waited for her signal: "Looks clear - but you'll want more light." Her voice rang like a bell in the dungeon, echoing back to her.

She waited just long enough to hear the sounds of the Aurors above chatting amiably with each other now that any initial danger was clear. She could hear them casting light charms before clambering down the rickety stairs. She made a mark in the wall next to the tunnel to let them know that she was investigating, and made her way down it.

Here, the stones on the floor were a little sticky. She crouched for a moment to determine why her shoes seemed to have a great affinity with the floor, and determined that it was covered in blood, not more than a few hours old. It had become tacky, not yet dry. The Auror felt her gorge rise, but resolutely swallowed, refusing to let herself be shamed by vomiting. After wiping her brow, and taking a deep breath to steel herself, she continued.

Fifteen feet down the tunnel, she came to the first set of doors. They were thick, banded wood doors, one on each side of the tunnel. Peering into the darkness, it looked as if the doors went on, one every five feet for an indeterminable length.

The Auror shrugged off the sense of foreboding, and turned to the one on her left. A quick examination proved that the door had a minor curse on it, one easily expelled. After doing so, she opened the door. It creaked and groaned; its hinges had not been used in some time. Inside, there was nothing save a molding pile of straw and some rats who went scurrying away from the light her wand cast. A quick examination proved that the room was otherwise empty. Leaving the room, she closed the door behind her, and scribed a note on the door, listing the curse that had been cast, the charm used to expel the curse, and that the room was otherwise empty. She did the same to the door on her right, and continued the procedure down the tunnel.

Each dungeon cell offered something a little different. One had a few bones that had been gnawed on by rodents, another had the still rotting body of a prisoner. One had blood splashed on the walls - far more blood than a single human could hold. Towards the end of the tunnel - there were six doors on each side, and a door at the end, making thirteen total - the Auror thought she heard a scratching sound louder than the rodents. She paused between the eleventh and twelfth doors to listen, but it stopped. She continued to the twelfth door, finding in it a pile of rags and little else, otherwise identical to the other cells she had investigated. Following the procedure she set, she continued to the thirteenth door at the end of the hall.

Here she stopped short. The door itself was larger and heavier than those on the other cells. She could feel the power of the curses on the door without needing to use a charm. She shivered again, then felt hot all over. Something behind this door had been very dangerous to Voldemort - all the more reason to discover what it was.

The Auror thought briefly of calling for help, but she knew that she was the foremost authority on curses they had here. Anyone else would just be in the way, and a part of her, a more ambitious part, wanted the credit for breaking these curses to herself. She would be able to move up in the ranks, no longer be the first one to go into dangerous places, like Voldemort's dungeons, expendable in the extreme. If she proved herself here, she would be able to move to a cushier position, something with an office, perhaps...

The Auror shook herself. These were not her thoughts, nor should they be. She realized the power of the curses, and took a few steps back. This one gave her false confidence, enticing her to try by herself, and she knew that this was a path to folly. She made a mark near the door, identifying the curse, and walked back up the tunnel way to the main entrance where several Aurors were milling about. She asked after the lead Auror, and was told that he was down the right-hand tunnel. She followed down it, and found him overseeing the same procedure that she had been engaged in not long ago.

"Sir, I've identified the contents of all the cells down the left hall, save one. There are some fairly insidious spells on it, and I would like to have at least one person to aid, in case I should falter."

The words were difficult to say, and she burned with embarrassment. This was an after-effect of the same spell, she could tell, and she didn't like it at all.

The head Auror stared at her with piercing blue eyes, then nodded. "With your recommendation, then, I'll send Mr. Orange with you to lift the curses on the door."

A young man with orange hair, for which his family was clearly named, looked up from the sigil he was inscribing. "Yes, sir."

When they returned to the thirteenth door down the left tunnel, the Auror stopped again and looked at her knew companion. "Have much experience with these?"

The young man shook his head. "Not as much as you, ma'am."

"Well, nothing for it. Just stand back, and call for help if it looks like we'll need it."

The orange haired young man did as he was told, and she started her work, identifying the spells, curses and charms that were used, telling him about each one. This one to rot the flesh from your bones, this one for blindness. This one to transfigure your liver into jelly, that one to inspire foolish confidence. One by one they were identified and she determined the order in which they were placed upon it. Then, having determined how she would remove them, she started lifting them.

She was in the midst of the last one (liver to jelly), when she felt herself lose her focus. Her voice faltered, but the younger Auror behind her raised his voice to match hers, and moved forward, his wand at the ready. Together they removed the last curse, and the door fell open by itself. A malodorous wave came rolling out the door, and the young Auror retched. The older one blinked a few times, and moved to the door frame, peering inside, trying to discover the cause of the stench.

This cell was the size of the others, but seemed smaller as there was a body inside it, curled into a ball, broken and battered, bruised beyond all recognition of the original color of the skin, and covered in filth. The wrists and ankles were still shackled by means of chains to the walls, but the hands and feet were no more than bloody balls of flesh.

The Auror moved forward, holding her breath, her robes making the only sound, a soft rustle of fabric moving. It didn't look like the body had started decomposing, but it was only a matter of time. She knelt down next to where the head lay against the stone floor, and suddenly realized why the body hadn't decomposed. Shallow, almost silent breaths made the chest move almost imperceptibly. It - no, he - was still alive.

The Auror gasped in horror, realizing that whoever this was, Voldemort hadn't wanted him dead. He had wanted this man to live for as long as possible in his dungeon, beaten, tortured. She cried out to Orange to get the head Auror. The younger man, desperately happy to be away from this, scrambled back up the corridor, leaving her alone with the wretched victim of Voldemort's torture.

She moved around to try to see the face without moving him. She dimmed the light on her wand, in case he looked up into it, she didn't want him to be blinded, and finally found a decent vantage point. She brushed the long, greasy and lanky hair away from the face, and was at once disappointed and horrified. The nose had been broken, and the jaw looked as if it had been beaten into an amorphous mass. Blood, bruises and grime obscured the rest. She studied it while she waited for the other Aurors to return.

The head Auror came down the tunnel, making a racket as he did so. He stopped at the doorway, and peered in, making his own wand brighter. "What have we here?"

Before she could answer another Auror behind him looked into the room and started retching like Orange had done. Impatiently, the head said, "I have a potion in my kit for nausea. Go get it before you vomit all over my robes." 

Suddenly, it clicked into place for her. "My God!" she exclaimed. "It's Severus Snape!"

The head Auror's eyes widened. "Call St. Mungos and the Ministry."

Numbly the two Aurors looked at the once terrifying Snape, then at each other. The elder's blue eyes softened for a moment as he surveyed his younger compatriot, a few curls of golden hair escaping from her normally tight bun. "Belay that. Call Dumbledore first. I want to make sure that he gets here before anyone else finds out. And for the sake of Merlin, don't let anyone else know who this is."

The younger Auror suppressed a shudder. "I don't think anyone else will be able to tell who this is."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

He smelled the blood of the battle in the library at Hogwarts. A small group of Gryffindors stood bravely - and stupidly - against the Slytherins, whose cunning exceeded the bravery of the Gryffindors. They stood protecting Grainger as she furiously flipped pages in a book, her mouth moving as she practiced the words to the spell. He couldn't quite make out what she was saying, but he knew it would deter the Slytherins from their goal of taking and holding the library. As she looked up triumphantly and held her wand pointing it at the head Slytherin, one of the smaller Slytherin boys took out a Gryffindor on the right and stomped over the fallen body, stabbing Grainger with a dagger. She doubled over, the spell dying on her lips, replaced with a bloody froth. The Gryffindors looked to their now fallen savior and screamed with rage, but it was too late. Their line was broken, and the Slytherins knew it. The rest of the battle was short and bloody.

---

Professor Sprout's once merry eyes now only held steely resolve. She held a rake in one hand and her wand in the other, rallying her gentle Hufflepuffs to her. They stood in the greenhouse on a table, calling the plants to grow up around their enemies and restrain them. A Death Eater at the end of the greenhouse had his own rallied children around him, staving off the now hostile flora, while throwing lightning bolts at Sprout. She tried to resist the worst of the effects, deflecting them into the walls. The glass shattered around them, and each time a plant was injured, a great shout went up. Finally, a scream of pure rage tore through the green house as Sprout deflected another lightning bolt into one of the Death Eater's children. The Hufflepuffs cheered, but their joy was short lived as their plants started to turn on them. No amount of casting would turn them back to their proper targets, and one by one, their shrill screams were muffled into hoarse gasps as they were choked by Professor Sprouts once precious plants. In the end, the corpses were piled into a corner, a piece of burlap covering them so they wouldn't need to be seen.

---

The Death Eaters had cornered Minerva - dear, brave Minerva, whose gray-blue eyes had never been harder to read. Her wand had been broken, but she still held a sword that seemed too large for her slender and frail frame to hold. They were alone in a corner, out of the way of everything. From the pile of bodies by her feet, she had been holding her own for some time, but by the looks of the bloody sleeve of her robe, her strength would be waning fast. Despite this, the weapon was held steady, her eyes focused on her target and nowhere else. She took stock of the man in front of her, and without so much as twitching, she buried the sword near to the hilt into his chest. While she worked to remove the newest body from the blade, another sword came slashing down, cleanly removing her head from her shoulders. It bounced once, twice, then rolled to a stop, the eyes registering surprise, nothing else. The Death Eater who had struck the decapitating blow hollered his victory, and took her body with him, laying it out on a table and raising his own robes to lay bare his vile member. When he had finished with the corpse, another Death Eater, who had been leaning against the wall, took his turn, then a third.

Snape heard a familiar scream in the distance, and realized, numbly, that the voice he recognized was his own.

---

He couldn't count the days that he had been here, in this dank and musty cell, covered in his own filth and blood. Hours ran into days ran into weeks. Sometimes he was physically beaten, sometimes he was fed scenes so real that he couldn't tell the difference between his real memories and these.

Early in his captivity Voldemort had slashed his eyes so he couldn't see, but not before he had broken every finger in his hands and forced Snape to heal it himself before breaking them again. The last real memory of seeing anything was of his own shattered hands, healed into horrifying claws, never to be used again.

Instead of scenes from his own sight, Voldemort filled his mind full of horrifying images - of Hogwarts falling to the Death Eaters, the faculty and students fighting for their lives. It seemed surreal, but just plausible enough that perhaps it was true. With no way of knowing the day or time, he couldn't tell if these were wishful hopes on the part of Voldemort, or true visions of the battles that were happening, would happen, or had already happened. 

He wondered if this was his fault, where he had gone wrong. Had he told Voldemort too much? Not enough to remain in his good graces? Had Dumbledore discovered the grains of truth in the rumors Snape was feeding Voldemort and left him to his fate? He wracked his brain in the beginning, planning escapes, but then it was pointed out to him, either by Voldemort or his own traitorous mind, that he would not be welcome home. He was a traitor, despised and reviled for even existing. He was anathema to his own, although he wasn't even certain which group he properly belonged to. He was outcast, alone, and despicable, even by his own standards. His name would become synonymous with evil, filth and treachery.

He hated himself, willed himself to death, but Voldemort kept pulling him back. Every time he though he could go no longer, Voldemort fooled him into thinking he had been rescued. Visions of Minerva and Albus finding him and pulling him back to the fold, proving conclusively that the anger and self-hatred he felt was unwarranted. They healed him, loved him, wanted him to be whole again, for no other reason than that they needed him.

And then, Voldemort would show him their seditious ways, how they really wanted him to go back and spy on the Death Eaters, report back to them on Voldemort's activities. They secretly laughed behind his back, hated him, hated his dark moods and his work. They couldn't stand him. He was a tool to be used until broken, then discarded if it proved too difficult to repair.

All these things did Voldemort do and say, until it seemed he could take no more, then he would be beaten again, his bones broken and healed and broken once again. He was a quivering lump of flesh, no more a man, and he no longer cared. Death would be easier. Death would be so much easier, but that release would not, could not be given to him. He was not worthy of death, only of this unending pain, torture, and hell that he was now in.

And at some point it stopped, but he couldn't tell. The pain was still there, and his mind, god, the one thing that he cared for more than anything, his mind could barely keep a thought in it for more than a moment before it flitted out again. His memories were broken things, showing him glimpses of love and joy, and then of terror. Each time he came to believe that something was true, it was taken from him again.

So when the time came that the pain receded from his joints, and he could only feel warmth and smell soap and lavender, and the soothing scents of his own potions, he retreated back into his mind, for this too was a dream.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Snape's body lay in the private room of the Hogwarts infirmary behind a closed door with a lock to which no one, save Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey, had keys. Outside the room, those two spoke in hushed tones; Madam Pomfrey folded linens while a haggard-looking Dumbledore sat on the edge of an infirmary bed, tugging on his beard.

"Careful, Headmaster. You're likely to pull it right out of your chin if you keep up like that," Madam Pomfrey said admonishingly.

Albus Dumbledore's watery blue eyes looked up to meet hers and he heaved a deep sigh. "Poppy, for the first time in quite a long while, I haven't the faintest idea of what to do."

"Well, let's get some tea and a biscuit into you, and we'll take it from there." Her voice was serene and steady, and in truth, he took more from her calm confidence than a thousand cups of tea. As a house-elf clattered cups and a teapot against his tray, however, Dumbledore knew that Poppy was right in this, at least. A cup of tea would do him much good.

Madam Pomfrey took the heavy tray from the little house elf, shooed him on his way, and poured tea for both of them. She handed a cup to Dumbledore and offered him a biscuit from the plate before sitting down on the bed opposite him.

They sat in silence through the first cup of tea. Dumbledore wondered if bringing Severus here was the best thing for the injured wizard, or if it was merely the best thing for himself. He tugged on his beard again, vastly irritated with himself.

_Poor, poor Severus, _Dumbledore thought. He had been a solemn, studious child, prone to dark moods and brooding. He had few friends when he was a student at Hogwarts, probably few friends before he had arrived as well. And children were so cruel, frequently without realizing it. Under the facade of his dark humors was a compassionate heart and a steady resolve that he dared to show only a few, and those few had taken advantage of him.

At the time, Dumbledore had thought little of it - children would be children, of course, and in time they would grow out of it, eventually become friends. He hadn't counted on Riddle to cause so many problems, to become such a dividing force, conquering those minds that could be conquered, destroying those who would resist him.

When Voldemort appeared, it looked as if Snape had fallen in with him, and Dumbledore grieved for the loss of another bright mind. Severus Snape, who had so much potential if he had only allowed himself to grow and flourish, was lost to the Death Eaters.

At the time they, the beginnings of the Order of the Phoenix, had meetings upon meetings to discuss what to do. Snape was the Potions Master, and it couldn't be allowed to have one of Voldemort's Death Eaters teaching the children of Hogwarts. He could taint them, turn them into Death Eaters themselves. They would be lost to the wizards of the order as Snape had been lost.

Before the fourth or fifth such meeting, Snape had gone to Dumbledore himself, and revealed the Dark Mark. He had come with the understanding that he would likely be killed for his treachery, had understood that to reveal himself was suicide, and gladly welcomed it.

But Dumbledore knew that there was a better use for Snape. He was accepted by Voldemort, could be used as a spy. Anyone else going to Voldemort would have been suspicious, but Snape! Ah, Severus Snape, who had been an angry and troubled youth, was now an adult with grudges to bear and people to hate. He was a perfect spy, ideally suited to it.

Dumbledore had a plan forming in his mind as soon as Snape had started reciting his litany of sins, and by the end of it, he embraced Snape as he would a child, kissed him upon the forehead, and told him that if he truly wished to repent his sins against the wizarding community, he needed to go back to Voldemort to spy for the Order.

And so it was done. When Snape came back to Dumbledore all the myriad of times with information and a plea not to return to Voldemort, he was given a short pep-talk and sent back to retrieve more information. He kept doggedly doing it because he was repeatedly told that it was the right thing.

For months and years did this occur. Finally, one day, Snape didn't return. Days and weeks passed and he had just disappeared. The Order of the Phoenix wrote him off for dead, but Dumbledore knew better. Snape himself had reported that Voldemort didn't kill traitors. He kept them in his dungeons, physically and mentally tortured them until there was nothing remaining of the original Wizard, then kept them alive indefinitely, occasionally bringing them out of the dungeons, stringing them up to dangle over his ballroom during revels, their shrieks and squeals intermingling with the music.

He should have found a way to rescue Snape, or ensure that he truly was dead. Ten months since the time that Snape disappeared and Voldemort died, and more than a month before the dungeons were investigated after the last battle. Poor, poor Severus.

"More tea, Headmaster?"

Madam Pomfrey's voice rang through his reverie, and Dumbledore jumped, upsetting his teacup. He blinked at her a few times until the words she said made sense to him, and then nodded.

She poured him a second cup, and Dumbledore sighed again. "What's your prognosis, Poppy?"

She smiled sadly. "To be honest, I couldn't say. Physically he'll heal, although I suspect that he may use a cane on colder days, and his hands - well, they'll be functional, but scarred. With my help, his sight will return." She paused and took a deep breath. Dumbledore nodded for her to go on, but she suspected that he already knew what she was going to say. "His mind though - I don't know what was done to him, and right now, while he's still sleeping, I couldn't even give you a guess.

"Headmaster, I'll be honest: this isn't my area of expertise. I can heal his physical wounds, although by the standards of St. Mungo's, my methods are a bit primitive; but I would say at least as effective, if not more so. But his mind - I just don't know."

"Would he be better off in St. Mungo's?"

Madam Pomfrey looked distressed for the first time since Dumbledore brought Snape back with him. "Perhaps? Ordinarily, I would say yes, but I've seen what they've done with the other survivors of Voldemort's dungeons - they heal them physically, and then just lock them away. It may be that that's the only option-" She stopped with the glare that Dumbledore gave her, abashed.

He shook his head and sighed. "I'm sorry Poppy. Go on."

She bit her lower lip before continuing. "I think that if he is going to recover at all, he will need to be around people who care for him. St. Mungo's has a lot of excellent facilities, but there is little that can replace the care of loved ones."

Dumbledore's face set resolutely. "What would need to be done?"

"Right now? Not a thing more than we have already done. I'll move a second bed into the private room so someone can sleep in there with him. He needs to know, even subconsciously, that he isn't being abandoned. But, like I said, until he wakes, I won't be able to tell any more."

He nodded, taking this in. "Thank you, Poppy, for all that you have done. Can you stay with him for the next several hours? I'll need to speak with Minerva."

"Certainly, Headmaster." Madam Pomfrey gave the same, sad smile. "I'll do whatever it takes."


	4. Chapter 3

Thank you for those who have reviewed thus far. I wasn't certain I was going to continue this, but now that I have a bit of encouragement, I think the resultant answer is that I will be. Currently, it's outlined to Chapter 12, and it's written out to Chapter 9 - although there is still a lot of editing that needs to be done. As always, polite critiques and reviews are greatly appreciated as they encourage me to improve my writing and keep me going.

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**Chapter 3**

He floated in a sea of darkness for a long time. He was warm and he didn't hurt. Lovely scents permeated his senses, the only things that did: lavender and beeswax, calendula, slippery elm, goldenseal and mint. It was pleasant and painless, and he wondered if he was finally dead.

Unbidden, his mind started reminding him of torments that Voldemort rained upon him, very similar to these. Soon, he would wake and find himself in that cold, dank cell, another beating, random and brutal.

But - for the moment, he tried to enjoy himself. Even though this was simply another game of Voldemort's, the sensations were pleasant, and who knew how long it would be before he could enjoy another moment like this.

In time, a long time, he thought, but perhaps it was but a moment, he felt himself pulled from the dark place he enjoyed. He was still warm, but he felt the pain coming back, dull and throbbing. The scents were still there, but now he heard a voice, soft and serene, humming.

He didn't dare open his eyes, for fear that the illusion would vanish, so for the moment he catalogued the sensations. He couldn't move his hands or his feet, so he guessed that they were bound and bandaged. A warm blanket was tucked under his arms, and his head lay against a soft pillow. The humming was a bit louder, and he wondered who Voldemort had chosen to gift with such a lovely voice.

He laid there for several long moments after, and listened as the humming drew closer then withdrew with the sound of a door opening and closing. Still, he remained and eventually, the pleasant darkness beckoned him and he gratefully returned. For the moment, he was safe.

He retched and coughed and felt a thousand blows beat against his body. He threw-up as he was kicked in the stomach, although there was little there to void. He tasted blood. The pain was unbearable, and he hoped against hope that he would just pass out from the pain. It was useless, though. He remained awake and aware of his surroundings, although he still could not see. Finally, when the beating stopped, he laid on the floor of his cell and he panted with ragged breaths that sent pain through his body. He wanted to return to darkness, but couldn't, quite. It sat back, calling to him, asking him to return. He told it to wait for a moment, wait while he caught his breath, and maybe then he would have the strength to go to it. Or, if it was that anxious to have him back, perhaps it could come to him.

At length, he finally drudged up the energy to crawl to the dark place, pain suffusing every limb and breath. He could feel the darkness reaching out to him, gently returning him to that beautiful, wondrous void, where it smelled of lavender and calendula.

But this time it was wrong. He still smelled the sour bile of his vomit, and the voice that had been humming lullabies of his childhood stilled, then spoke in worried tones. He couldn't make out the words, couldn't understand them. There was something wrong, something horribly, definitely wrong. These were not the usual tactics of Voldemort! What was he doing?

There was suddenly a sensation of a bubble bursting. The scents were sharper, the sensations more graphic. The pain he felt was intense, but not in the way that the beatings had been, where one set of bruises ran into another. This was different, cleaner, some how. He took a deep breath, and sharp pain stabbed into his lungs. The voice became more frantic, then another voice, softer, one that he recognized more readily than his own: Dumbledore.

For the first time since he started having these dreams, he opened his eyes - only to find that he couldn't quite. It was still dark, and he couldn't see. He panicked for a moment, for this, too, was wrong. He was shown everything. Only by his own choice was he not permitted to see. Why was this different?

That deeper, soft voice said something to him, over and over again, and eventually the syllables started making sense. "Severus."

Severus! Yes, that was his name. He had forgotten it in his time in the dungeons. Severus. Oh, how wonderful, to know his name. He held on to it for a moment, savoring the sound of it. Severus.

But this was a trick. Why did Voldemort give him his name? He would only take it away again. He had best forget it, as soon as possible. No, there is no Severus. Severus is gone.

He tried to explain this to the voice, but his own voice wouldn't work. He couldn't see (again, this was wrong!), and he couldn't tell if he was being clear or not. It was difficult to communicate when you couldn't see and couldn't speak. How to do this. How to do this, indeed.

But the voice was insistent. All it said was Severus, over and over again. He felt a cool hand brush against his cheek, and for a moment leaned into it, smelling the soap that was used, and enjoying the simple sensation of contact with someone who wasn't trying to hurt him at this moment. Later it would, later this creature of Voldemort's creation who sounded like Dumbledore and smelled like him would cast him aside.

The name again. Still calling him Severus. Severus, Severus, Severus. When would it stop?

He moaned, and even he heard how pitiful it was, and he hated himself for his weakness. The sound was hoarse, raspy, and the sound of someone who was very deeply alone, in pain and utterly mad.

The voice stopped for a moment. No sound that he could hear from anywhere, then the name again.

Another voice joined, but said something different. He couldn't understand it. A hand was placed over his eyes, which were useless, and then he realized why. A bandage covered them, and it was being removed. He held himself utterly still for a moment, daring not to breathe. Maybe if he could see, he would be able to communicate better, tell the apparitions to go away, that he didn't want their torments. They never listened before, and he didn't expect them to now, but he could hope.

The pressure against his face was removed. He opened his eyes eagerly, and felt a moment of disappointment when he couldn't see anything. He turned his head to see a glimmer of light, two lines, perpendicular to each other. He realized that he lay within a darkened room, and as his eyes adjusted, he could see two figures, one sitting on his bed next to him, long white beard unmistakable, and the other hovering matronly.

Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey. He knew them. Albus was his mentor. Pomfrey - what was Pomfrey doing in Voldemort's creation? She had never been in them before, never before been a part of his fantasies or his torments.

He put that aside for the moment, for they both were looking at him with hope and fear.

Dumbledore said something, ending with "Severus."

What was that? He wanted to tell them that he didn't understand the words, but his voice wouldn't work. He rasped at them. Pomfrey seemed to understand and brought a glass of water to him. Dumbledore held the glass while Madam Pomfrey supported his head and shoulders, allowing him to drink. She laid his head back down, brushed the lank hair back from his brow. He looked dully at her, and tried to remember what he wanted to say.

"Do you know me, Severus?" Dumbledore asked him after a time.

It took a moment for the words to register; his mind wasn't working as quickly now. There was too much to consider, too much to think about, and the thoughts were coming to him and leaving him too quickly to be able to concentrate on one for any length of time.

"Severus, do you know me?"

Here. Here and now. "Yes, Albus," he whispered. "I know you."

Tears sprang from Dumbledore's eyes. "Oh, thank god, you're home safe. You're home."

Voldemort, he thought, why must you torment me like this?


	5. Chapter 4

Again, thanks for the reviews. They are always appreciated. Chapter 4 is up before I leave for the weekend. If Idon't get chapter 5 uptoday, expect it some timeMonday. I'll be working on editing chapters 6-9 today, and perhaps writing Chapter 10. Lookingat how this has been set up, it may actually be expanded to 15 chaptersrather than the original 12 it was slated for. I'll keep you posted. :)

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**Chapter 4**

Minerva McGonagall couldn't quite recall how long she had been sitting in the private ward of the Hogwarts infirmary. She'd had a tendency to nod off when she was sitting with Severus, so she had started bringing her work with her, but now she was having a hard time concentrating on the parchment in front of her. When the letters started swimming around in front of her, she had thought that one of her students had played a trick on her, but upon further investigation, she was just tired.

The door opened quietly; McGonagall looked up. Madam Pomfrey stood at the door, tray in hand with teapot, cups and biscuits. Minerva hurried to clear her work away from the table so Madam Pomfrey could set the tray down, and Minerva took over serving.

"Any change?" Madam Pomfrey asked of the wizard in the bed.

"No. Not that we expected any, but I keep hoping." McGonagall poured tea for Madam Pomfrey, then herself.

The other woman smiled. "I know what you mean. We were so excited the day that he responded, but there's been nothing since, not a peep."

McGonagall sighed. She wished that she had been there, wished that she could have had a chance to see him awake, alive – some semblance of normal. Days had passed since he had been brought back to Hogwarts, and still nary a sound, save an occasional groan, and no expressions crossed his face but a grimace of pain when his dressings were being changed.

"Nothing for it, I suppose. If Voldemort weren't already dead, I'd gladly kill him again." McGonagall's voice was soft, almost pleasant, but steel underlaid the tone.

Madam Pomfrey looked mildly surprised at the older witch's statement, but she couldn't argue with it. She left the obvious unsaid, and merely responded with, "It's time we changed the sheets again."

Sensing the need for the mundane task to set her aright, McGonagall agreed. "Would you like me to levitate him?"

"If you would."

The two women worked in silence, McGonagall levitating the man in the bed, while Madam Pomfrey carefully changed the sheets. When he was set back down, they gently worked the blanket out from under his arms and replaced it with a clean one. There was no sign of a response from the man.

That was how McGonagall had started thinking of him. What she knew of Severus Snape was no longer in this broken man. Severus had been strong-willed, but prone to brooding. He hated to have anyone help him, although he frequently needed it. And even with their differences in their teaching, tastes, moods, she had considered Severus a friend. He was brave in ways that many of her own Gryffindors could only dream to be, and clever. His sense of humor was dry, but always witty, when he allowed it to show; and he did, on occasion, allow his thick shell to crack, and let her in.

The man she found on the inside was complicated, interesting, and very much alone. When he chose to become a spy for Dumbledore, he had closed himself off from everyone even more, but she fancied that she was still one of the few that was allowed into his life.

But here they were now. Minerva sat on the edge of his bed once he was tucked back in, and put a dry hand against his cheek. His skin was sallow and pale, the bruises he'd had healing. His nose had been broken several times, but she thought it gave his face character. There was a scar across his eyelids, where Voldemort or one of his minions had slashed his eyes, and while the eyes had been healed (a tribute to Madam Pomfrey's skill), the scar remained, and would for the rest of his life.

His hair still lay lank against his skull, but now gray strands ran through the raven ones. His face and arms were thin, far thinner than they should have been. His arms ended in bandages that covered his hands.

What a terrible waste, she thought. She recalled his beautiful, shapely, carefully manicured hands. If that man had a singular pride, it was his hands. They were lovely and steady, and she thought of how he could pour his potions with perfect accuracy. Now, though, now they were misshapen, ugly things. Madam Pomfrey said that he would be able to use them again, but Merlin! How horrible they were to look upon, so unlovely. For that, if for no other reason, did McGonagall damn Voldemort. He had known of his victim's pride, known how to best destroy him.

For the first time during this, she wept. Madam Pomfrey had left the room, and for that she was grateful. She laid her head against his chest, and heaved great sobs for the loss of a man she had come to admire. All the pain and anguish she knew when he disappeared reprised itself. She hated herself for encouraging him to return to the Death Eaters when he had laid his soul bare to her, told her that he couldn't go on.

"Minerva?"

She sat bolt upright, for a moment wondering where the raspy voice came from. She looked into the open eyes of the man on the bed, and gasped.

"Severus?"

He held her gaze for a moment, and Minerva knew that somewhere inside the broken man was the great one she once knew. He broke the gaze first, and looked away, his mouth working, but no sound emitted. She looked around for a glass for water, and saw the pitcher on the bedside table. She poured a bit for him, and lifted his head so he could drink. He did so, thirstily, greedily. When it was finished, she still supported his head as she laid it back down on the pillow, and kissed his forehead.

"Minerva, is this a dream? You'd tell me if I were dreaming, wouldn't you?"

Her mind worked furiously, wondering what he was about. For the moment, she thought that the best course was the truth. "No, Severus. You are not. You are not dreaming at all. I am as real as I have ever been."

"Thank you. But, please Minerva. Don't cry. Don't cry."

His eyes closed again, but this time they opened again almost immediately. "Will you be here when I get back?"

She thought to question where he was going, but instead opted for hope. "Yes, I will be."

He nodded. "Good. I'll be back soon. I hope. Please be here. I like this creation." He blinked once, twice. "I don't know why you've chosen to torment me like this, but I like this. Please be here when I get back." His eyes closed again, this time not reopening. His breathing was soft and regular.

And Minerva could do nothing but start weeping again.


	6. Chapter 5

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed for the encouragement, and my apologies for the lateness of the update. I'm doing a little rewriting and shifting around of the story to allow for better flow and more even pacing. I suspect that when it's done, it will probably go through a pretty severe revision and be reposted in its entirety.

Again, I greatly appreciate the reviews.

* * *

Chapter 5

The hall was decorated entirely in red and gold. Gold leaf covered every available surface – and what wasn't gold had been upholstered in red velvet. Ostentatious, but comfortable, and not at all what one would have expected from the inner sanctum of the most feared and deadly Wizard to walk the earth in centuries. A long table had been placed in the middle of the hall, dark and forbidding.

Snape stood at the foot of the table, goblet held aloft. Voldemort was seated at the head, his throne a bit higher than all the other chairs. An amused smirk crossed his face, but much amused the Dark Lord these days. Death Eaters from all corners of the wizarding world lined either side of the table, some with their drinks at the ready for the toast, others waiting patiently for the toast to begin.

Snape took a deep breath, steadied himself before beginning. A year ago he would have laughed at the irony. Now, he only felt sick, as if a hole had opened up in his stomach. He was a fraud, a spy, and he half thought that Voldemort was on to him by now. He looked at the Dark Lord across the table, who inclined his head gracefully. Snape took one more deep breath, cleared his throat.

"My Lord, and assembled compatriots of our cause. It is a great privilege that I come before you this night, to give the toast on the eve of our victory. We have worked hard these many years, garnering power where we could from every angle and corner. Some have done so by their physical strength, and others have funded our endeavor by their influence. Whatever the means, we are here together, for we have done a great service in the name of our Lord." He paused here, gauging reactions. Most seemed receptive, and he forged on ahead.

"We are in the presence of greatness; of a genius that knows no bounds. Were it not for our Lord, many of us would be dead, or languishing in torment in Azkaban. It is for him that we are here, for our Lord, our Master. Tomorrow, many may die, but we will persevere, for our Lord has decreed it so!"

Thunderous applause echoed through the great room, the high vaulted ceilings raining the clamor back to the Death Eaters. The dangling prisoners, normally muted, shrieked and swung on their chains high above the table. Snape sat in the chair that had been provided to him gratefully, and sniffed at the liquid in his cup. He didn't drink it, as even his formally trained nose couldn't quite identify the substance. Around him, his fellow Death Eaters congratulated themselves for their impending victory, many placing bets on how many more prisoners they would be able to take to hang from their Lord's ceiling.

Snape ignored most of the discussions, carefully cutting his meat and pushing the food on his plate around, trying to make it appear as if he had been eating. He smirked and sneered at the appropriate moments during his neighbors boasts.

He looked up to the head of the table once, and immediately regretted doing so. Voldemort looked at him and _through_ him for a moment, and Snape had the unsettling feeling that the Dark Lord knew everything there was to know about him. Then, he nodded once to the Potions professor, smiled coldly, and directed his attention to Lucius Malfoy.

Snape was suddenly glad he had avoided eating, if for no other reason than he was certain that he would have vomited on the spot. As it was, he made polite excuses to his neighbors and pushed his chair back from the table.

A voice cut through the noisy hall, instantly silencing it. "Going somewhere, Severus?"

Voldemort had spoken without ever looking away from Malfoy, although a hundred pairs of eyes were now turned his direction. Snape's customary sneer flattened to a firm line. "It is late, and Dumbledore's fools will wonder well where I am. It is best that I get back to allay their fears, the better to keep them in the appropriate state of surprise on the morrow, my Lord."

The Dark Lord turned his gaze fully on Snape, and he smiled. "I see. And it is not to report to that doddering idiot of our plans for tomorrow." It was a statement delivered softly and without ire. It chilled Snape to the bone.

"I fear my Lord knows me not at all to make such an accusation." His mind worked vigorously, trying to find his best escape route. He couldn't Disapparate, as Voldemort's headquarters had a similar ban on it to that of Hogwarts.

"I fear I know you all too well, Severus. And now, so does everyone else. Thank you, for your toast. Although it was made without conviction, the words themselves were important for tonight."

Voldemort didn't need to give an order. The Death Eaters who sat closest to Snape drew their wands as soon as he did, and advanced on him just as he retreated. He calmly brought up a picture in his mind of the castle. As long as no one stood between himself and the side doors, he would be able to escape.

One of the Death Eaters advancing on him pulled back his wand, and began an Avada Kedavra, but turned to a pile of ash before the second syllable. Snape looked for where the rescue came, and almost choked. At the head of the table, Voldemort had his own wand drawn, pointed to the place where the Death Eater had stood.

"Alive, if you please, Gentlemen. I would prefer him alive."

The Death Eaters grinned at each other and advanced in earnest. More rose from their seats, some hurrying to join the fray, others simply standing to get a better view. Snape could hear distantly the sounds of wagers being called across the table, and thought he heard Lucius' voice come smoothly through the din, "See, my Lord? I told you he could not be trusted. It is truly for the best that this happen now."

Snape dispatched four before they took him, sheer numbers overwhelming him. He fought like a mad dog when they had wrestled his wand from him, biting and clawing at the multitude of hands that grabbed for him, each Death Eater taking part wanting credit for eliminating Snape as a threat.

Finally, someone who had more sense than the rest, paralyzed him with a charm. His head hit the ground hard, and he saw stars, but could not move to alleviate the pain that blossomed from the back of his head. As he stared upwards and a dark cloud hovered at the edge of his vision, Lucius Malfoy's head swam into view. "Severus, Severus, Severus. You should have known better, and in fact I would have thought that you would. There is a great deal that I would have liked to tell you, to confide in you. But alas, such is not to be. For you, you Severus, are a traitor. Apostate and destined to be alone. Death is too good for a traitor. I invite you to join your brethren in the dungeons, for that is your fate."

Snape realized that these words were more for the audience than for himself. He knew what happened to traitors. His only hope was that Dumbledore would be able to fend off the Death Eaters long enough that he would die of the deprivations and torture before he could be forced to talk.

But even he agreed that death was too good for a traitor.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Dumbledore's face was placid and his body still, except for an absentminded tugging on his beard, but inside he raged and paced like a caged lion. Minerva was outwardly more active, mirroring what he wished to do, but he sensed that at least one of them had to stay calm for the moment. He thought to try calming her, but his first words to her had only elicited a snappish response. Minerva, whose preternatural calm was usually a boon to the both of them, was angry and predatory, and very, very afraid, although she wouldn't admit it.

"I don't know what he did to him, Albus, but by god, that man is lucky he's dead now. I would not be so kind to him." She measured the length of the room in her pacing, then finally sat down stiffly. She took a few deep breaths, visibly steadying herself. Finally, when she had gained more self-possession, she cast a sideways glance at Dumbledore. "I'd give much to know what was done to him."

The old wizard sighed and leaned into the comfortable armchair in his office. He took a lemondrop from the bowl on his desk and offered them to McGonagall. She shook her head slightly, and he shrugged. "As would I. It might give us a clue as to how to help him. As it is, he's regained consciousness several times, but I would say that he doesn't quite believe that he is safe. He seems to believe that we are a construct of Voldemort's imagination. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine."

Minerva thought about this for a moment, and then her eyes narrowed. "I might argue that your guess is better."

Dumbledore gave her a sharp look over the rims of his glasses. "I'm not willing to do that. Not yet, anyway."

"Albus," she said imploringly, "until we know more about what has happened to him, we won't be able to help him. And the more we know, the better able we will be to combat whatever it is that is plaguing him."

"Don't be daft, Minerva." Dumbledore said in an uncharacteristic display of frustration. These past days had been harder on him than he was willing to admit. McGonagall, for her part, simply raised an eyebrow at him. It was enough to soften his tone. "Mucking around in a wizard's mind is chancy stuff at best. I suspect that's what Voldemort was doing, and I'm not about to send him farther into madness by convincing him that we are doing the same. He's afraid, and paranoid, and frankly, I think he's had excellent reasons to be both."

Minerva pursed her lips together, but was not cowed. "It is up to you, of course, Albus, but I think we are making a mistake by not using the tools we are given."

Their conversation was interrupted by the voice of Madam Pomfrey. "Pardon my interruption, but I think the both of you should come to the infirmary. Immediately."

McGonagall and Dumbledore looked at each other for a moment. Nothing was said, but nothing needed to be said either.

Not knowing what to expect, McGonagall and Dumbledore raced to the infirmary as soon as they could. The lights had been dimmed during the summer holiday, and kept that way for the sake of the injured wizard. The high ceiling seemed darker than usual, and Madam Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen.

"Poppy? You called us?" McGonagall called out. Her voice was strong, but worried.

"In here!" Came the hissed response from the private room.

Again, McGonagall and Dumbledore exchanged a quizzical look and quietly followed the sound of Pomfrey's voice.

The door to Snape's room was ajar, not quite wide enough to see inside. Dumbledore readied his wand and McGonagall, who pushed the door open, stood back.

Inside, Poppy Pomfrey stood against one wall opposite the bed, wand in hand. Snape still lay in the bed, sheets and blankets disheveled and thrown about. His eyes were open, his head tossing one way then the other. He was covered in sweat. But it was not Snape that Madam Pomfrey aimed her wand at, but the apparition looming over the bed.

Tall and dark, clothed in voluminous robes, a pale hand emerged, pointed at Snape. Snape screamed hoarsely, but unable to move, he only succeeded in thrashing the covers around. He spat out bits and pieces of spells and curses, none of them coherent. The robed figure didn't seem to see anyone else in the room.

Dumbledore moved in, calmly pointed his wand at Snape, and spoke a few words, dispelling the apparition. It puffed into nothingness, no sign of it having ever been there except the soaked and tossed sheets. Snape's eyes closed, and his breathing regulated.

Poppy sagged against the wall, and McGonagall raised an eyebrow and Dumbledore.

"Fine. We'll set up the ritual in here after I have some lunch."

"What was that thing?" Madam Pomfrey asked. She wasn't generally prone to nervousness, but the apparition had unnerved her. She hovered in the doorway, half in the room, half out.

Dumbledore looked up from the bowl he was preparing with McGonagall's help. "That was a Night-haunt."

Poppy didn't look reassured. "I've never heard of one."

McGonagall gave her a tightlipped smile. "I'm not surprised. They appear very infrequently, and usually only around fairly heavily traumatized wizards. There are only a few recorded cases of them. I'm rather surprised Albus even knew how to deal with one."

Dumbledore mumbled something in response around the wand he had clenched in his teeth.

"Are they dangerous?"

"Not generally- oh, Albus, here, let me help you with that." McGonagall levitated the bowl he had been wrestling on to the table. "There we go. But, no, as far as I know, they are not actually dangerous – or physically dangerous to anyone else. They will, however, give everyone a good scare, and they feed off of that – much like a boggart will."

"More to the point," Dumbledore interjected, "is that they will put a good scare into the wizard who dreamed them up." He looked pointedly at Snape. "Which is why I've conceded to taking a look into his mind. When the fall session starts, I don't want to have Night-haunts crawling all over the place, scaring my students. There, I think that does it. Severus always had a gift for this. I have a bit of a knack, but it's as much art as anything else."

"Besides," Minerva said, as much to hear a voice in the otherwise silent room as to inform, "this isn't true Legilimency. It's half Oneiromancy – dreams."

"Quite right. Thus the reason for all this clap-trap." Dumbledore added, waving to the bowl he was about to seat himself in front of. McGonagall nodded sagely and Poppy fussed with some towels. They were all nervous, but trying not to show it.

As he sat down, he pulled up the sleeves of his robe and placed his hands on either side of the bowl. He took a deep breath, then released it.

"Somnia Aperio," he intoned, and suddenly he found himself in a very different place.

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A/N: So, here we are. This chapter was originally written some time ago, and was the original chapter 5. Then I realized that I hadn't actually gone back to explain what was going on in Sev's head recently. Then I thought that maybe I should go back to this as chapter 5. Then I wrote a description of how Sev got into this predicament, which was going to just be a bit of stand alone, but then I thought that maybe I should add it here. Then I realized that my original outline didn't cover that. And furthermore, the original way I wrote this one didn't have any of the characterizations that I wanted. And no explanation ofwhat Dumbledore wasdoing, and why.

Moral of the story? So, there's a shitload of waffling that happened, then some minor, then major rewrites. I'm my own worst critic, I think.My outline, while still technically standing, is no longer quite as useful. I need to go back and revise the outline.

Also, for those of you who have noted and commented on it, I write fairly short chapters - generally between 12 and 1500 words a piece. The reason for it is that I tend to write in blocks - usually at work when I have a couple of hours that I'm not using for anything else. Most of my chapters could be very short stand alone stories, which is why I'm somewhat displeased with Chapter 6 - it's left hanging in a place I wish it weren't.

I'm babbling, aren't I?

At any rate, at this point I need input. The next few chapters were originally written in their short block versions, but I'm thinking that I'm going to combine them for better over all story flow - but it would disrupt my chapter sizing. Should I keep them as is? Do I combing them? Do I just do one big brain dump, wait for input, and when I'm revising the story separate the chapters out again? Thanks in advance.


	8. Chapter 7

Terror. Pure, unbridled fear assaulted Dumbledore upon entering Severus' mind. It hit him from all sides, and he felt beaten and bruised. So much fear in one place. It was a wonder the injured wizard could string any words together at all.

Dumbledore raised himself above the flow of horror, and looked around. Snape's mindscape was red and black, geometric shapes made the sky and ground, joining together at wrong angles, making it difficult to look in one place for any length of time. The river of fear that he had unknowingly stepped into was the color of hematite and flowed like quicksilver. It was oppressive, seemed to go on forever in both directions.

Dumbledore took stock of the situation. The river flowed from one direction and to another. While it would be helpful to know where the fear was going, it would be more helpful to know the root. With that thought, his form started floating upstream, following the river to the source.

He stopped occasionally, to sample the river. Once it was a memory of Hermione Granger killed by a Slytherin, another it was Snape's own hand that killed a Muggle woman. People died in the most horrible imaginable ways, their bodies and souls raped and burned. Dumbledore thought that sometimes the memories actually were Snape's, and some were clearly the constructs of Voldemort. 

Dumbledore eventually came to the source of the river, where it welled up out of the red and black ground from nothing. It flowed into the river bed from there.

He was surprised at how easily he found the source. He had expected defenses of some kind, at least a stumbling block or two, and it made him nervous.

A ways away from the source, he saw a small copse of birch trees, white with silver leaves against the red and black sky. Curious, he followed a well worn path to them.

Within the copse sat Severus Snape - or rather, Severus as he had looked when he was quite a bit younger - no older than twelve years old. He was slender and pale, solemn, though his face was free of the lines that later marked him so; there was simply a line between his eyebrows from frowning. He looked up, and smiled a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, his thin lips turning up at the corners. "Hello, Headmaster."

Dumbledore was momentarily shocked into silence. "Severus?"

The young Severus jumped up and gave a slight bow. He approached Dumbledore, defferentially. "Please, Headmaster, sit with me for awhile. I'm lonely here."

Dumbledore, against his better judgement, allowed the boy to help him sit. Severus sat down next to him, and said nothing; he seemed to simply enjoy the peace of the dappled shade.

The older wizard examined the trees from where he sat. The leaves appeared to be made of the same stuff that the river was, but lighter. A leaf fell into his lap and he picked it up and looked at it.

It flashed silver at him, then subsided, leaving him with the impression of serenity. He picked up another leaf that looked like it had fallen some time ago and examined that one as well. This one was love. He took a moment to examine a third, then fourth. Each one had another sensation, hope and joy flashed through him.

Two of the leaves seemed to piece together, and he joined them in his hands. The resulting image was of a girl, red haired and blue eyes that smiled at him. Dumbledore felt a tremor of happiness from the image, and smiled to himself for the briefest moment, then looked at the boy next to him.

Young Severus didn't seem to notice anything happening. His eyes were closed and he hummed tunelessly.

"Severus," Dumbledore said softly. "What is this place?"

The boy turned his attention to Dumbledore, and opened his eyes. "This is the memory place. Memories are kept here, but these are broken." He seemed sad for a moment, and Dumbledore shared that sadness.

"And the river?"

"The river is angry. It has memories too, but they scare me. The memories there are more complete, but I don't like to touch them. I touched them for a time, before I found this place, and it turned me into an old man. The old man is still there, at the other end of the river. I searched for good memories, but they are all broken." He waved vaguely at the trees, and a tear slid down his cheek.

Dumbledore nearly wept. "Is the old man at the end of the river still there?"

The boy shrugged. "Perhaps. I don't see why he wouldn't be. He seemed to enjoy wallowing in the mud pit the river made at the end. I didn't like it, so I came back here." He seemed uninterested in the old man.

He filed that away for future reference, and tried a different tactic. "Have you tried putting the memories back together?"

"How?" the boy countered. 

Dumbledore showed him the joined leaves he had made. The boy took it in his hands and a brilliant grin lit up his otherwise solemn face. The smile reached his eyes this time. "She's so pretty! Who is she?"

"I was hoping maybe you could tell me that."

Severus shook his head. "I don't know. I don't remember a lot of things. The memories are here, but..." he trailed off, looking at the joined leaves in his hands, focused on them. He sat there for a long moment, just staring.

"Severus?" Dumbledore asked gently.

The boy looked up again, but this time sad. "There is so much I don't remember. So much I just can't remember."

Dumbledore had a thought, but held it. Instead, he said, "Can you take me to the man at the end of the river?"

The boy looked at Dumbledore like he was crazy. "I'm not going to go there. I've been there before. It's ugly and dark. And the old man is scary."

"Perhaps, but I think the old man was a friend of mine once. I would like to see him again before I leave."

"Why would you want to leave? Isn't it lovely here?"

Dumbledore smiled at the boy. "Yes, it is lovely, but I have responsibilities outside of here. Perhaps you would like to come with me some day?"

The boy thought about it for a long while, almost to the point where Dumbledore was afraid he had forgotten the question.

"Maybe. Someday. I don't like leaving here though."

"Perhaps we can talk about it again. Would you like it if I visited you again?"

Young Severus gave another brilliant smile. "Please. I would like it a lot if you would. I get lonely."

"Maybe you could work on putting the memory-tree memories back together while I'm gone?" Dumbledore offered.

The boy frowned. "Maybe. I don't know if they'll like me, though."

"It doesn't hurt to try, does it?"

"I guess not. Please don't be gone long." The voice was imploring, and the Headmaster felt his heart pulled. 

"Don't worry, Severus. I won't be gone long."

The boy didn't seem to notice as Dumbledore left.


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: In retrospect, I should have just combined this chapter and the last one. This is a (very) short update. I'll try to post the next few chapters in the next few days. I'm currently working on pounding out chapters 12-15.

Thanks for the encouragement. As always, polite reviews and critiques are always welcome and encouraged.

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Chapter 8

Dumbledore left the quiet copse, and noted that the river made a discordant murmuring noise. He hadn't noticed it, until he had experienced its absence. No wonder the boy didn't want to leave the trees. The river had a very disconcerting effect.

The trip to the other end of the river was quick, and again he had the disquieting sensation that there should have been something guarding it, but nothing was there.

The river came crashing down the side of a cliff, creating a great waterfall. Dumbledore floated over the top of it and looked down. At the bottom, underneath the flowing memories was a figure, but one that he couldn't quite make out.

He floated down the cliff face, careful to avoid the splashing memories. When a particularly large drop splashed out of the river, it would coalesce into a ball and run back into the river. Dumbledore felt quite ill looking at them.

When he reached the bottom, as he had suspected he found an older Snape. From the way the Younger Snape had spoken, he thought that this one would be aged well beyond his years, but instead he was - in appearance - nearly identical to the one lying on the bed in Pomfrey's infirmary.

The differences, though, were small, but noticeable. He moved gracelessly, as if he carried a great weight upon his shoulders. Scars from his youth were more pronounced, showing scarlet against his pale skin and through the mud. The memory-water splashed and swirled around him, over him, creating mud in the red and black soil. Snape was covered in it, his hair coated and matted with it. His hands were claws and Dumbledore couldn't see his feet, but suspected that they, too, were twisted and ugly. He didn't seem to see Dumbledore at all, and for the moment, he was grateful.

Snape let the memories wash over him. Occasionally, a great wracking sob emitted from his half-open lips, other times he fell to his knees as if in pain and a roaring cry came through. So much pain, so much hate, and so much fear was in the pit at the bottom of the memory-water fall that Dumbledore was hesitant to approach.

Finally, sensing the need to follow Snape, he did. He pulled his robes up around his waist and waded into the mud. He drew closer to the angry man, who had fallen to his knees, and felt the pain that Snape must be feeling. He gasped with it, but the kneeling wizard didn't seem to notice.

Dumbledore put a hand on the man's shoulder and he flinched away. Snape looked up, and sneered. "What are you doing here, Albus?" he asked, his tone would have withered any of his students. The Headmaster of Hogwarts was made of sterner stuff than that, though.

"I've come to find my friend," he said, kindly. He smiled sadly at Snape, who spat at him.

"Let me be, Albus. Just let me be. I've earned what I have here. Why did you come?"

"No, Severus. No one deserves this. No one at all. Not even you. Especially not you." He approached Snape again, and moved to put a hand on his shoulder, but Snape harshly batted it out of the way. There was a short laugh, ending in a gasp of pain.

"Don't call me that, Albus. That's the name of the little halfwit at the Source. And don't tell me I don't deserve this. I think of the two of us, I know my crimes better."

"Not all of these are yours, Severus. That I know for a fact. But truly, no one deserves this much pain."

Snape turned and looked at Dumbledore full in the face for the first time. The older wizard nearly gasped at what he saw there. No sign of kindness was there, not even the flash of compassion that Severus had shown Dumbledore in the past. Deep lines were engraved into his face, as if every sin he committed was indelibly marked on his visage. The slash across his eyes was there, but he seemed to be able to see through the bloody tears.

"This is what I am, Albus. You are right, no one deserves this, except me. Why have you come to Hell to see me? Go back to the place from whence you came, spirit. Go home, and bother me no more."

Snape sat down in the Memory-mud, and began bathing in it, rubbing it over his arms and chest. He ignored Dumbledore's attempts to talk to him again, finally submerging himself entirely in the mud.

Dumbledore could stand it no longer, and floated back to the point where he had entered Snape's mindscape, leaving it with regret. He felt sick, tired, and very much alone.

When he came to himself, the room was still empty except for himself and the figure on the bed. He could hear soft voices outside the door, but could not make them out.

He crossed the dimly lit room to the bed, and sat for a moment in the chair next to it. He put a gentle hand on Severus's forehead. "God, Severus. I am so terribly sorry for what we have done to you. You deserve better than this. So much better. I will find a way to bring you back together again. I swear I shall find a way!"

The figure on the bed slept on, seemingly peacefully, but Dumbledore now knew of the troubled waters that ran beneath.


	10. Chapter 9

A/N: Back into the swing of things. I was floundering a bit without an outline, and I could tell: my writing had taken a serious nose dive, and the original reason for writing the story (an excercise in writing longer fiction, with a focus on description) sort of got tossed by the wayside. Now that I have a new outline that I'm working from, I'm a much happiercamper, and definitely able to focus more on the descriptions and flavor.

As always, I appreciate reviews, comments and critiques (especially the last).**

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**Chapter 9**

It was evening, and the infirmary was dark except for the glowing lamps and the light of a bright gibbous moon shining through the high windows. Pomfrey and McGonagall sat in comfortable wingback chairs, transfigured from some of the beds. A third sat empty, waiting for Dumbledore. Normally Madam Pomfrey would have balked at such a change, but with summer in full swing, the likelihood of needing those beds immediately was somewhat slim.

Dumbledore finally emerged from the private sick chamber, exhausted and sweating. He leaned against the door frame and Madam Pomfrey jumped up from her seat to guide him to an opposite chair. McGonagall summoned a house elf for tea. After he'd had a chance to sit for a bit, McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

Dumbledore took a deep breath before beginning and rubbed his hands over his face, lifting his half-moon lens glasses in the process. "It's worse than I thought. I'm still not certain what Voldemort did, precisely, but I can certainly see the results.

"To start with, he has no defense against minds prying into his own. Even the basic defenses we teach all young ones are gone, destroyed utterly. I can't even fathom what it took Voldemort to completely demolish his defenses - Severus was one of the foremost experts in Occlumency. It's probably the reason that the night-haunt showed up. He had no way to defend against it." He paused, and let that sink in. The very idea that someone who had such a great control over his mind now had so little was almost sickening.

"He is... divided, almost literally. His mindscape is ugly and scarred. There is a part of him that is a child - innocent and lonely. The other part of him believes completely and utterly, that he is completely without value - that he has deserved the tortures that he and Voldemort devised.

"Voldemort essentially took every good memory Severus had and shattered it. His only whole memories are the ones that Voldemort gave him - and in truth, Voldemort truly didn't even give him most of those memories - he fed on Severus' own imagination." Dumbledore's eyes glistened with tears as he thought about the visions of his betrayal of Severus.

Madam Pomfrey spoke first: "What do we do, then?"

Dumbledore took a moment before speaking. When he did, it was hesitant. "To be honest, I'm not certain. There are several directions we can go from here. I found pieces of some of his good memories, and given enough time, I think I could even reconstruct them, but he'll always be changed. Many of them he would have to rediscover and rebuild on his own. Or, we could wait and see if he recovers anything himself, but I think that is unlikely given the extent of the damage done. Alternatively, I could wipe everything, give him a clean slate, but if I know Severus, he would not forgive me for that. I'm not sure if I see any other options now."

McGonagall clasped her hands in front of her face, steepling her fingers in thought, "The first option; what would that entail?"

"To begin with, I would have to enter his mind, much like I did now. I would probably start with memories I've been involved in, so I can be sure of getting something fairly close to his true memories. Once I have all the pieces, I suppose it would be a giant puzzle, although I'm confident that I would be able to keep them together once I had them." He paused and took a deep breath. "Unfortunately, there is only so much that I can do. He would have to do most of it himself - and the biggest part would be rejoining the two parts of himself. I'm not even certain that I would be able to do much to help him - it's something that I think he would have to do on his own. I might be able to facilitate a meeting between the halves... but maybe not."

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat. "When he's been conscious, I've seen no evidence of this-"

"I doubt that he is consciously aware of it himself. In fact, I would be surprised if he knew it was happening. He might have dreams of what happened today, but I doubt it. Eventually, he will have to become aware of it, but for now, I think it is in our best interests to not tell him - let him discover on his own what is happening."

McGonagall frowned. "I'm not certain I agree. You are proposing to recreate his memories without his consent. After, I might add, that you argued stringently against even entering his mind. If he discovers what you are doing, he might have a violently poor reaction to it."

Dumbledore shrugged eloquently to the two witches. Volumes could be read into that single gesture, of thought and defeat. "Perhaps. But now that I've seen what has been done, I'm not certain that there is a better option, or that we can afford to wait."

Pomfrey, who had been curiously silent during this, merely copied Dumbledore's shrug. "If it means returning him to some semblance of normal - or at least functional - I don't see that we have a choice if the other option is what he is currently doing."

McGonagall pursed her lips. "I don't like it. But I also don't think we really have another option. When do you propose we start?"

The Headmaster raised an eyebrow at his deputy. "We?"

"We're in this together. Whatever has happened has because of the decisions we made. If we're going to go to Hell, we might as well have good company." Her eyes were grave, but the wry twist of her lips made it a dry joke shared between friends.

Dumbledore snorted softly. "Only you, Minerva, I swear. We'll start tomorrow, then, after everyone has slept. Who is staying up with him tonight?"

"I am," McGonagall said.

"No, Minerva. Let me stay up with him." Madam Pomfrey was firm. "If you and Albus are planning to start his mental healing tomorrow, you should get a good night's rest."

"No, Poppy. I'd like to be with him tonight if you don't mind." McGonagall's eyes brooked no argument, but it was obvious Poppy wasn't pleased.

Both women looked at Dumbledore, as if expecting him to make a decision. McGonagall turned the same steely stare to him and he sighed. "Minerva, if you wish to stay with him tonight, I'll not argue with you."

"Good. I'll see you both in the morning." McGonagall adjourned to the private chamber without another word, leaving Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore to their own devices.

The remaining two simply looked at each other, Pomfrey's lips compressed in a thin line, but Dumbledore's weary eyes twinkled with amusement. "There's no arguing with her when she's like that. Best to let her do as she sees fit."

"I don't have to agree with it."

"And no one is requiring that you do, just that you be understanding. I didn't realize how difficult this would be for her."

Madam Pomfrey smiled a touch bitterly. "That seems to be a rather common refrain just now: 'We didn't realize' so much that now we're left to pick up what's left. So many dead, Albus." Her eyes glistened with tears that even she hadn't yet shed.

_So many dead. So many tears, _he reflected.

"It's enough to want to give up, isn't it?" she asked.

He nodded soberly. "Sometimes. But we can't, you know. Then there wouldn't be anyone left."

_There wouldn't be anyone left._

He shook himself of those thoughts. "Enough, then. Let's find ourselves a cup of tea, and a sticky bun, shall we?"

_No one at all left._


	11. Chapter 10

A/N: I have to say that I am much happier with this chapter than I was when I started editing it. The original one was written a couple of weeks ago,and then I hit a speedbump when trying to write the rest of the story. I ended up having to come back to it, and it wasn't rewritten so much as expanded.

Unfortunately, it may be a couple of days before I'll be able to post the next chapter or so. Life in the exciting world of semiconductor manufacturing patentsis getting busy, so I'll most likely have to concentrate on that thing that pays my bills, rather than work on this. Ah well. Such is life, eh?

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**Chapter 10**

It was quiet in the infirmary, and as there was no one else in it, McGonagall left the door open to the private chamber, letting a little air blow through. The lamps in the main room had been put out, with only the moon to light it. She left one lamp on, although dim, in the private chamber so she could read while sitting up with Severus.

She almost regretted her decision to stay up with Severus again, but not quite. More, she regretted snapping at Poppy, who had only offered to be helpful, but Minerva would not hear anything of it. "Damnably prideful," she muttered through a yawn that took her suddenly.

"Minerva?" a hoarse whisper said. She had been expecting him to wake up, so she was not surprised, but she hoped that her noise hadn't been the cause. She simply smiled and moved to the chair next to his bed.

"Would you like some water, my dear?"

He nodded slightly, and she helped him to sit up, supporting his shoulders with one arm while she held the glass. When it was nearly done, he sagged back into her arms, leaning his head into her shoulder. She went to help him lie down again, but his voice, stronger than it had been, asked her not to.

"Please, Minerva. Help me sit up. I'm tired of lying here." His dark eyes were haunted, and a touch embarrassed. McGonagall could only assume that it was his weakness that discomfited him so. He sounded as if he would rather have died than ask for help – a sign that he really needed to sit that he would demean himself so.

"Of course, Severus."

She continued to support him while she summoned some pillows from other beds in the infirmary with her wand. They floated through the door, and she laid them against the headboard before helping him sit up entirely. When she was done arranging the blankets around him again, she noticed that he was sweating some.

"Poppy will have my head if you relapse, you know."

He smiled at her sadly, and for a moment she wondered what happened to the serious and stolid man she once knew. She would have almost welcomed an insult that used to fall carelessly from his lips - a return to normalcy.

"I had a dream about Albus, you know." He said it quietly, conversationally. His voice was almost normal, although there was still a ghost of the scratchiness in it.

"Did you? Are you hungry?"

"Why are you trying to change the subject, Minerva?"

There it was. His voice was stronger now, and she could almost believe he was normal again. He was demanding, haughty. If she closed her eyes (as she did for a brief moment) she could see him in a staff meeting, or in front of his classroom.

But then she opened her eyes, and he was still very, very ill, his eyes sunk dark and hollowly into their sockets, haunted. Newly forming scars covered his mostly bare arms, the biggest one where the Dark Mark once was. His hair hung limply in his face, and he had not quite the strength to brush it out of his eyes. His hands were still bandaged, and she knew that the bandages and scars covered most of the rest of his body - and there were more that she couldn't see, but felt with her soul.

"You dreamed of Albus, then? What happened?"

He sagged against the pillows, letting them support his head. He closed his eyes, and in that moment she thought he looked much like he had when he was younger, before the lines of age took over his face. When he opened his eyes again, he was composed and thoughtful; McGonagall almost wept to see it.

"I- I think there was a girl. Yes, that was it. A girl. With red hair and blue eyes." His eyes were not cloudy, and he gazed at McGonagall for a long moment, as if measuring her response, to see if she recognized the description. She shrugged slightly to indicate that she did not.

"No matter, then," he said softly, and sighed. It looked as if he would drop it.

"No, Severus. Tell me about her," McGonagall asked gently. She was pleased that he remembered something, and wanted more information.

He stared for a moment, as if trying to understand the words. "I don't know," he said at length. "I don't remember anything beyond that. There was a girl. She smiled a lot. I think she was nice to me. Merlin's beard, Minerva, I wish I remembered more about her. About anything." Dark eyes brimmed with tears, and he looked away as one rolled down his cheek into the stubble of his growing beard.

McGonagall took a monogrammed handkerchief out of the sleeve of her robe and went to dab at the tears. As her hand neared his cheek, Severus turned his head away from her violently and snarled, "I don't need your fucking sympathy, Minerva!"

She reined in her tongue before she could make a snide remark, and pursed her lips with displeasure. She was the one who had wished for an insult earlier. They sat silently for several long moments, McGonagall in her chair, and Severus propped up with pillows and breathing heavily from the exertion of his outburst, before the older witch put a hesitant hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to her again, letting the pillows support the weight, and she saw that his eyes were bloodshot and wet.

"Will you tell me something, Minerva?" he whispered. His eyes held the haunted look she had become accustomed to, and it pulled at her heart a little to see it again.

"Anything I can," she offered a tentative smile. "What would you like to know?"

"Just… tell me something about myself." His voice was soft, imploring.

McGonagall was momentarily disconcerted. Her inclination was to give him a list of his virtues, of the things she liked about him, but she suspected that wasn't what he was looking for. Instead, she opted for a memory of her own that she shared of him.

"I remember about fifteen years ago the Yule Ball that we hold at Hogwarts every year. You were so very young then, and very, very serious. The great hall was decorated in red and gold and green, and the students were dancing until they couldn't dance any more, and then beyond that point. Poppy was going a little mad trying to get enough salves for sore feet the next day.

"Ah, but you. You looked very grave in your black robes, whereas everyone else was dressed for the holiday. A bit of coal in the midst of all the gilt and glitter. And you stood at the back of the room, glaring at anyone who accidentally got too close to you, as if daring someone to ruin your evening by brightening your mood.

"Of course, the ladies and I had a bet going that no one would be able to drag you out on to the dance floor. Sprout said that it would take a handful of stinging nettles to dislodge you from your corner." McGonagall cast a sideways glance at Severus, who seemed to be listening to her story without any expression. She forged on, determined to finish the story.

"Of course, she didn't count on my sense of determination. After a couple of failed attempts by other faculty members, I decided that it was my turn. I marched right up to you and demanded that you dance with me."

McGonagall wasn't sure that Severus had been listening, but his lips twisted wryly. "What did I say to that?"

"I don't recall what you said, exactly, but I believe it was something along the lines of, 'Madam, I don't know who you think you are speaking to, but surely you have noticed that younger, and considerably more attractive members of the staff have already tried to lure me on to the dance floor. What, precisely, makes you think that you will persevere where others have tried and failed?'

"To which I replied, 'Why, because I'm a much better dancer than they are. And surely, a man of your discerning tastes will only dance with the best dancer here.'

"'Flattery will get you nowhere, Madam, and you offend me by such cheap tactics,' you said, and I think I laughed at you. I tried simply grabbing your hand, and you pulled out of my reach and snarled at me – which of course I laughed at again. You could never stand to be laughed at, and I think I rather deeply offended you by it." She looked solemn for a moment and Severus winced.

"Was I really so unagreeable?" His eyes were shadowed, and Minerva couldn't quite identify the emotion that passed over them.

"And only became more so with age," she confirmed, then grinned wickedly at him. "But you finally agreed to dance with me."

"How did you convince me?" he asked, softly.

"Easy: I finally appealed to your baser instincts, and offered to share half the profits of the betting pool with you. You negotiated me up the three quarters, and I agreed – but mostly because I wasn't interested in the money. I just wanted to dance with you."

"Why, if I am so unagreeable?"

"Because you are only prickly to those who do not know you well, and those whom you dislike. Albus has always considered you one of his children, and it took me several years to warm to you-"

"To trust me?" he asked shrewdly.

She pursed her lips. "No," she said, drawing out the word. "I trusted you because Albus did, although at times I didn't understand it. No, it took me several years to warm to you, because the skin you showed the world was designed to keep people away." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "However, the most beautiful rose often bears the nastiest thorns. Being friends with you has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life – although at times it has been difficult."

Severus closed his eyes, and McGonagall thought for a moment that he had fallen asleep again, but he spoke. "I don't remember any of your story," he said shortly.

McGonagall sighed. "Do you want to remember?" she asked.

There was a long pause. He opened his eyes and looked at her oddly. When he spoke, he sounded a little strangled. "I don't know. I think I do. Do I? I want to know that when I'm talking to you, I'm not just talking to Voldemort." He barked a laugh that was half sob. "Are you listening to me, you bastard? Is this your idea of a fucking joke?" he yelled to the ceiling.

McGonagall didn't quite know what to do. She tightened her grip on his shoulder, as if trying to reassure him she was still there. He moaned, and sobbed, and finally, after several long, tense minutes, when she didn't know if he was going to be able to breathe again, he leaned into her hand. She then took him around the shoulders and held him, murmuring that she was still there, she wasn't going anywhere.

She didn't know how long she sat with him, but he finally subsided. His last words to her before he slept again were, "I'm sorry, Minerva. I'm so sorry."

"I know, Severus. I know."


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Into Severus' head

"He knows."

McGonagall's words were quiet and sober. Hers were not the sounds of dire portents that Dumbledore usually equated with Trelawney's divinations, which made them all the more disturbing.

"Did he talk to you last night?" Madam Pomfrey asked.

Minerva nodded. "He woke up in the night; I'm not sure when. He said he had a dream about Albus, and that he remembered a girl with red hair and blue eyes. He was excited that he had a memory that Voldemort hadn't touched, but that was short lived. He's still half convinced that he's still locked in the dungeons somewhere, and that we are all figments of his or Voldemort's imagination." She set her mouth in a firm line, and looked to Dumbledore.

They were seated in Pomfrey's office – it seemed like the best and closest place for their meetings. She had even started keeping a bowl of sweets on her desk for Dumbledore, who absently partook of the contents.

Dumbledore sighed. "I suppose it's a good sign that he is at least peripherally aware of his dreamscape, but I have to wonder whether it will be a help or hindrance. Frequently, the dreaming mind has a better handle on what is best for it than the conscious mind."

"Quite right," Pomfrey agreed, nodding vigorously. "I, for one, think that if nothing else, you need to go back in there and start piecing together at least something – lay the groundwork. If it is as you say, then he needs the help, but I think that once it's started, he'll be able to work it out on his own."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "Minerva?" he queried.

She looked up abruptly, as if she had been lost in thought and called on her inattention, but she answered quickly enough: "While I have misgivings about mucking around in his head, I think that it would be best if we, like Poppy suggested, lay the groundwork."

The elder wizard nodded curtly and gave his beard one last tug. "It's settled then. Poppy, you'll monitor our progress, and Minerva, you're still with me?"

Both witches gave nods of acknowledgement.

"Very well. Let's begin, shall we?"

"Mind your feet," Dumbledore said as he and McGonagall entered the dreamscape together.

McGonagall gasped as she levitated herself out of the rushing river of hematite-colored pain. "Merlin's beard! No wonder he's been half a step from catatonic!"

She surveyed the landscape. It was as Dumbledore had described it, but she wasn't expecting it to be so… disturbing. The geometric shapes of the sky and ground were enough to give her a headache without paying attention to the colors. As it was, the effect was unsettling.

"Where do we start?" she asked after taking a deep breath. She hoped that the churning she felt in her stomach was actually psychosomatic rather than an indication of physical nausea.

Dumbledore extended his hand to her. "This way, I think. Let's start at the source and see if there is aught we can do there."

They followed the river to the waterfall and source. Dumbledore again spotted the glittering copse and led McGonagall into it, both setting down on the ground once they were away from the river.

Once there, Dumbledore was surprised that he didn't see the young Severus. The ground at the base of the silver trees was littered with memory leaves, sorted into small piles, although none looked as if they had been successfully joined with any others. Some of the shining leaves spilled over into other piles, and others were very obviously being kept separate from each other.

"Severus?" he called out, but there was no immediate answer. Other than the leaf piles, there was no indication that anyone was or had been here.

McGonagall took in the view of the trees and their leaves, then knelt among one of the largest piles. She caressed one of the leaves, and was at once surprised and gratified to find that it was a memory of her – although she was somewhat younger at the time. She thought it might have been from his childhood. On a whim, she plunged her hands into the pile, and swayed on her knees as the memory-fragments washed over her. These were almost all Hogwarts memories – classes and teachers, mostly. Almost no classmates. Many were of Dumbledore, some of her. And a few were definitely newer memories, Severus as an adult, teaching and marking scrolls, the occasional emotion of pride in a student's accomplishments.

She turned to one of the other piles, and these were all of a red haired girl, then a young woman, although it was clear she was the same person, simply different ages. She found a particularly large piece and examined it for a moment, turning it over in her hands while the vision passed over her.

The girl was thirteen or so in the memory. Her hair was extremely long and straight, the color of an autumn leaf just turned red. She sat in a window, looking out at a snowing vista. She brushed her hair and carefully, painstakingly worked the tangles out of it. She turned once and smiled, blue eyes sparkling and merry. She waved her fingers in greeting at someone, then went back to staring out the window.

McGonagall shivered for a moment, and was about to replace the leaf to the pile where she found it when she heard a cry from behind her. Dumbledore's voice called out, "Severus!"

She turned to see what was coming, and she was nearly bowled over by a boy dressed entirely in black. He dove into the pile she had pulled from, scattering leaves every which way. "They're mine! You can't have them!" he shouted at her.

McGonagall was taken aback, and she looked for Dumbledore. When she spotted him walking up behind her, he just shrugged.

Young Severus was now covered in memory leaves, and his eyes glinted in the red light cast from the sky.

"I don't want to keep your memories, Severus. I just want to help you recover them."

The young boy narrowed his eyes at her. "Why should I trust you?" he asked suspiciously.

McGonagall offered him the leaf she still held. "Is there any reason why you shouldn't?"

A small hand darted out and snatched the leaf from her. He held it close to his chest and his black eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again, suspicion was still reigning, but it was also mixed with curiosity.

"What do you want?" The young voice was resolute and McGonagall couldn't help but sigh.

"I want to help you, Severus. That's all I want to do."

Dumbledore broke in. "I brought her here, Severus. I thought she might be able to help you."

"Why? The pieces don't go together. I can't make them stick." He took two memory leaves that, if McGonagall was any judge, looked as if they should have gone together, but when he pressed them together they didn't remain together.

"May I see them?" she asked.

Young Severus held them together, but did not offer them to her. A fat tear rolled down a gaunt cheek. "They don't stick," he said again. "They look like they should. But they don't."

"Severus." Dumbledore said, quiet, implacable. "Let Professor McGonagall help. She's good with puzzles."

The boy looked to Dumbledore, who had come to stand next to the witch, then to McGonagall herself. He looked doubtful and afraid, but finally, after a long moment of deliberation handed the pieces to her.

McGonagall took the pieces and examined them. One was the large piece she had looked at earlier. The other was of the same girl, but this time she stood laughing with two girls McGonagall vaguely recognized as Slytherins from ages ago. She didn't recognize the setting, but she was certain it wasn't Hogwarts. Severus was right, though. The two pieces did look like they should fit together, but it looked as if something was missing.

"Sometimes," she said gently, "it's easier to set one puzzle aside and start a new one. We can come back to it in a bit. Here – let's try some of these over here." She motioned to the first pile she had touched.

Severus snatched the leaves back from McGonagall, who gave them up without issue. "No. I'm not going to do anything until I can make these fit!"

McGonagall looked up to Dumbledore, who shrugged at her, but spoke to the boy. "You know, Severus, she's right. Sometimes it is easier to come back to something after you've put it down for a bit and walked away."

The boy's eyes welled up. "Fine. You can work over there," he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of another pile. "But I won't stop until I have this one figured out."

The elder wizard and witch looked at each other. "Very well, Severus. It is your decision."

The boy shrugged noncommittally, but then remembered his manners. He bowed to them both gravely, then turned to his work, trying to make all the pieces match in what seemed an impossibly complex task.

Without anything else to do, and with the young boy all but ignoring their presence, Dumbledore and McGonagall started working on another pile – the Hogwarts memories. Each one took their time sifting through them. McGonagall wasn't sure what Dumbledore was working on – his brow was furrowed in thought as he hunched over a particularly large piece – but she found herself looking for the memory of Severus dancing with her. If she could restore that, she might have a place to start other memories.

She sifted through the pile for a long time until she located a piece of it, only now it was from his perspective. The swirling, bright robes of dancers occasionally brushed the hem of his own, making it rustle a bit. His arms were folded over his chest, and he had to work to keep the sneer on his face.

She rumaged for a bit longer and found another one. This one was a snippet of the conversation that the two of them had together. More combing through the pile resulted in a bit of the bargaining. Soon, she found many pieces of the memory, but parts were still missing, she felt. Some had joined together by themselves, but others had not – it was extremely frustrating, and she understood why the young Severus was obsessed with the memories.

Something needed to join the memories, she thought as she found yet another piece of it and set it aside in the small mound she was building. There was something missing from all of this, something that would hold it all together, but she couldn't even begin to guess what it might be.

The sound of creaking joints made her look up. Albus was starting to stand, and she hurried to his side to help him. "You would think, that with being a construct, my joints wouldn't hurt," he said peevishly, but his eyes twinkled with good-natured humor.

"You would, wouldn't you?" she said. "What were you working on?"

He shook his head slightly and mouthed, "Later."

McGonagall looked to Severus, who didn't seem to hear them. He was still absorbed in the leaves in front of him.

Loudly, Dumbledore said, "I think we had best be on our way, don't you think?"

McGonagall looked at him for a moment as if he had gone mad, then realized what he was doing. "Yes, I think we've done quite enough for one day," she said, pitching her voice to carry.

Severus looked up for a moment. "Will you come back?" he asked. Was it her imagination, or did his voice quaver a little?

"Absolutely," Dumbledore said kindly. "We'll be back before you know it."

Severus went back to his work. "All right."

The older wizard leaned heavily on the witch as they made their way out of the birch copse. The river running along the banks sounded simultaneously like glass breaking and low, anguished moaning. They paused at the bank, and leaned against an outcropped rock.

"We should go take a look at the mouth of the river before we get back," Albus said. His blue eyes looked dark in the red light, and there was no hint of the twinkle that was normally an integral part of his face.

Minerva gave him a pained expression, but nodded. "All right," she sighed. "I'm not terribly looking forward to that, but I suppose it's for the best."

The pair steeled themselves for what was inevitably to come, and walked along the river bank. They matched their pace, moving slowly and steadily downstream. The mud on the bank sucked at their shoes, and they levitated themselves to be out of the muck. Before long, they came to the waterfall, and they gazed down it.

The waterfall seemed deeper, longer. The water at the bottom crashed and churned nauseatingly. The air of anger and hatred was palpable. Minerva felt vaguely ill watching it.

Albus glanced sideways at her. "Don't concentrate too much on it. Just follow me down."

They levitated down the side of the waterfall, and Minerva was hit with a couple of stray drops of water. She shivered as sadness, regret and melancholy mingled with each other in the hematite drops. She brushed them off her arms, then reached out to brush one of the drops that had landed on Albus' shoulder. As it touched her fingers, it sizzled and bitter anger was released.

At the bottom of the cliff, the older Snape wallowed in his mud pit. His hair was coated in the dark mud, dripping into his eyes. He didn't seem to notice, though. Those same eyes were too dark, black holes that consumed all light. Minerva was afraid that if she got too close, he would consume her as well.

Snape's eyes flicked back and forth between Dumbledore and McGonagall before settling on the ancient wizard. "What are you doing here, Albus? Didn't I tell you not to come back?"

Albus smiled kindly. "Perhaps you did, I don't quite recall. Maybe there is something that I can do for you?"

"Never seeing you again would be good enough. Or perhaps you're simply a new torment?" Snape's voice held a questioning note, then he smiled mirthlessly. "You brought the Gryffindor bitch with you. Why?"

Minerva felt like she had been hit in the stomach with a bludger. Albus held his hand up to still her tongue, which was working in her mouth but not able to make a sound.

"I didn't bring her with me. She came of her own accord, to see you, to help you if you would have it."

Snape's gaze turned on McGonagall and he sneered. "You want to help? Then leave me. I'm certain your precious Potter needs the help more than I do."

Minerva pressed her lips into a firm line. She was angry, but logically knew that there were extenuating circumstances. It didn't make her want to throttle him any less. "I think I've seen enough, Albus." She turned to leave, but was stopped by a voice behind her.

"That's right! A fine show of Gryffindor bravery you are. You won't even face one man alone, unarmed, with the truth. You are all the same – touting your bravery and courage, when in fact, you are as underhanded as you accuse Slytherins of being. Merlin's beard, Minerva. Your behavior is shameful."

She turned in full to see Snape rising out of the mud. He was naked but for the grime, and one arm was raised as if to hurl a ball at her. She sidestepped the mud easily as it went whizzing past her ear.

"What was that supposed to prove, Severus?" she asked, and felt a moment of satisfaction as he flinched at the use of the given name. Oh, she knew that what she was about to do was awful, and she knew that she would regret it later, but for now the visceral pleasure of laying into him was too great. She ignored Dumbledore as he tried to pull her away. In the head of Severus Snape, he could work no magic save that Snape would allow him to do.

"What was that supposed to prove?" she hissed at him again. "Here you are, wallowing in your own filth, this stuff that you yourself made? No one is forcing you to be here, and its only your own doing that you sit in torment. Voldemort is dead, killed by Potter's own hand, and what have you to show for it? All the work that you did, forgotten in the wake of his victory because you do not have the courage to stand up for yourself. Instead, you'll fling mud and insults at old women. Good day Severus. If you drown here, it will be a fitting end."

She turned to leave, and this time did not look back. Had she, she would have seen Snape gaping after her, the mud running off his skin, slithering away into the pit. Even the mud at his ankles seemed to draw away from him.

Then, as suddenly as it had drawn away, he fell to his knees and the mud swirled around him, coating him once again. Albus cast a concerned look to him, but Snape didn't notice. He stared after McGonagall's retreating form as it lifted effortlessly up the cliff face and wept.

* * *

Thanks for the reviews, guys. Some of the reviews I've been getting (esp. some of the lovely suggestions I've been receiving). As always, I appreciate it imensely. Keep 'em coming:) 


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Pomfrey, Dumbledore and McGonagall were back in Pomfrey's office in the hospital wing, the first sitting behind her desk with an inventory ledger laid out in front of her, the others arrayed on the low sofa she kept for guests. Both Dumbledore and McGonagall sagged into the comfortable embrace of the furniture, cradling teacups on saucers. Neither had spoken, nor had they touched their tea. They seemed to be studiously avoiding looking at each other.

"Well?" Madam Pomfrey asked. She sounded a touch exasperated.

Dumbledore looked to McGonagall for the first time since they had seated themselves. "Do you feel better?" he asked mildly, although there was no doubting the thin line of sarcasm that ran beneath. Poppy looked at him sharply, but he ignored it.

McGonagall straightened then, took a sip of her tea and took a deep breath as if to fortify herself for what was to come.

"Not particularly."

"Good, because I'm relatively certain that you didn't improve the situation." Dumbledore's normally placid nature had given way to steel. He drank his tea in two gulps and poured himself a second cup.

Poppy's eyes were wide. "What happened?" she demanded.

"I-" Minerva started, then paused and swallowed. "I lost my temper."

That was putting it mildly. The part of Severus that had called her the Gryffindor Bitch and had impugned her honor hit an auto-rage button inside her, and she had lost control of a naturally very acerbic tongue. Her need to lash out at someone since they had brought Severus back had culminated then and there. The sounds of the pain and anger inside his head still echoed in hers, and she felt very deeply guilty for it.

Dumbledore snorted. "If we're very lucky, he won't remember that when he wakes up, and will write it off as a dream."

"It's a monumental task. I don't think I quite understood the extent of it," she said quietly.

"Obviously." His words were clipped short by Pomfrey holding up her hand.

"I think you both need to take a break." She looked at both of them as they opened their mouths as if daring them to say something against it. "Don't bother arguing with me. Right now, I feel that your presence will be detrimental to his over all health and recovery. I'll clean up; the two of you can talk to each other or not, but whatever you do, you're going to do it away from here. Do we understand each other?"

Poppy Pomfrey was firm, and when it came to the welfare of her patients, there was little that would dissuade her. She stood and held the door to her office open, and watched as Dumbledore and McGonagall left.

Minerva left without another word. She was still a little confused as to why she had snapped like that, and wanted to take a moment to clear her head, examine what she had done. The Hogwarts Headmaster held the door to the infirmary open for a moment and waved her through, closing it behind them. They paused in the corridor, listening to Pomfrey hum through the solid doors as she went about her tasks for the day.

"Are you back under control?" Dumbledore asked without inflection.

Minerva wanted to snap at him, but when she studied his face, she could find no sign of mockery – he looked genuinely concerned and that deflated her some more.

"Yes," she sighed. "I honestly don't know what possessed me to do that. It just - came out. One moment I was fine, and the next I had become a screaming harridan. I didn't even know that person."

Dumbledore nodded. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. A headache was starting behind her eyes and was working its way up to her temples. "If you don't mind, I think I need some time to myself."

"Will you talk to me before you do anything else?" he asked. This time, there was definitely good natured humor in his voice. Minerva opened her eyes to see him smiling sadly.

She took a deep breath. "I can do that. Just – I just need some time," she repeated.

"Fair enough. You know where to find me."

They parted ways, Dumbledore heading to his office, and Minerva to her chambers.

She arrived to her private rooms, muttered her password and the doors obligingly opened for her. She walked through her parlor, barely registering the red and gold theme that pervaded the room. She went directly to the bathing room, and started a hot bath. She didn't notice the house elves picking up her robes behind her as she climbed into the steaming tub.

Minerva loved a hot bath. It was one of the few great physical pleasures she had in her life anymore, and enjoyed the sensation of steaming hot water, the tingling feeling she got all over from simply being submerged in it. A hot bath and a good cup of tea could do more to clear her mind than almost anything else, and she reveled in it.

Once through the initial sensations of the bath, however, she turned her mind towards her actions earlier. What she had done was nearly unforgivable. She had known it at the time, so what had spurred her on to saying what she had?

She tried to recall what she had done, the circumstances. Being in Severus' head had made her irritable. The constant discordant noise put her on edge. She had been fine when she was at the source, but the noise either wasn't there, or hadn't made such an impression on her. She thought it was the former, that it was simply absent.

Next, he had called her the Gryffindor Bitch. Oh, that was it.

_Minerva McGonagall stood at the head of her third year transfigurations class: Gryffindors and Slytherins. A young Severus Snape sat alone, the only odd member of the class – everyone else had found partners early in the fall session and had stuck with them. Poor Severus, however, was destined to be the odd boy out and had been for the last three years. Fortunately, he didn't seem interested in partnering with anyone, and took to his studies well. He was one of the few that she trusted to be able to make the appropriate transfigurations without overwhelming supervision._

_Minerva moved up and down the rows of desks checking work as she went along. "Mr. Potter, if you end with your wand half an inch higher, you will not end up with frog legs. Mr. Black, please pronounce the entirety of the incantation. Slurring it will only result in a puddle." She paused next to Severus. "Very good, Mr. Snape. Two points to Slytherin, for a perfect transfiguration."_

_Severus smiled tightly under the acknowledgement and ducked his head. Minerva moved on, but heard a crash and snickering behind her. She turned to Severus who stood in the middle of an upended desk and his face burned red with anger. He shouted, "I don't care if the Gryffindor bitch takes fifty points from us!"_

Minerva shook her head of the memory. Now she would have laid even odds that Potter and his crew had been behind whatever had transpired, but at the time she had simply taken the suggested fifty points and assigned him to a week of detentions with his Head of House. She wasn't about to deal with him for awhile after that.

She submerged her head underwater. When she came up for air, she wiped the water from her eyes and breathed deeply of the steam. Her head was definitely clearer, and she felt far more ready to face the rest of the evening now that she'd had a chance to clean up.

Once done with her bath, she levered herself up and out. She paused briefly in front of the mirror to adjust the robes she slipped on. She was long past the days where staring at her reflection in the mirror brought any sort of pleasure. With practiced ease, she twined her wet hair into a bun and stuck a few pins into it to hold it in place. There. She took a deep breath, and left her rooms to visit Dumbledore.

"That didn't take long," Dumbledore commented as Minerva let herself into his office. Tea was set out, and Minerva's favorite biscuits were arrayed on a small plate. Flying in the face of good etiquette, she seated herself and poured herself a cup of tea and nibbled absently on the sweet. Albus smiled kindly at her, and his eyes twinkled as he took up his own seat.

"I owe you an apology," he started. He gave her a measuring look over the rim of his teacup.

McGonagall's eyes widened, but nodded an acceptance. "We seem to be doing that a lot."

He shrugged; in that moment she realized how very old he was. He was at least twice her age, and she had been feeling the weight of her years for quite some time. His shoulders drooped, his grip on his teacup wasn't quite as sure as it once was. But his eyes still sparkled as much as they ever had and that was reassuring.

"It seems appropriate, though," he sighed, then abruptly changed the subject. "While I don't necessarily agree that what you did was best, I don't think it hurt anything, and in fact may have helped."

The witch gaped at him, teacup halfway to her mouth, seemingly transfixed to that position. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "You should see the look on your face."

Minerva snapped her mouth shut and pursed her lips. "What do you mean?" she asked after a lengthy pause.

"I mean that your ranting at the Mouth may not have been a disaster. The mud pulled away from him for a moment, as if he were fighting it, or perhaps it had no hold there. It coated him again when he gave into it, but for a moment it sloughed off of his skin. I think it was encouraging – perhaps a sign that there is still a part of our boy that can be worked with."

McGonagall mulled this over for a moment. "Or that the mud is sentient," she said.

Dumbledore shook his head. "It's possible," he allowed, "but I think unlikely. If it were, I think it would have made more of an effort to do something to me or us while we were traipsing around inside his head. As it is, the mud seems unaware; not inert, but not sentient."

She nodded in agreement. "Tough love, hmm? Any ideas on how we can harness this to our own ends?"

There was another shrug. "Give it another couple of days, and try to talk to him again?" he hazarded. "I wish there was more documentation on this sort of thing. I hate trying to do this by guesswork."

"I suppose that's all we have, though," Minerva said sadly. She reached across the desk and took Dumbledore's hand in her own, feeling his papery skin underneath her fingertips. She gave the hand a quick squeeze, and felt it returned.

They sat for a time, neither speaking, but both thinking:

_That's all we have._

* * *

A/N: So, it's been a bit over a week since my last update, and I'm feeling guilty. Admittedly, I had some fairly good reasons for the delay (insanely busy work schedule this week). Next week is much, much clearer, especially since I don't have to commute thirty miles through winecountry (yay!)

I'm working on getting around to all of the various emails and reviews that people have left for me. Please keep them coming, as I get a warm fuzzy feeling everytime I open my inbox and see a bot atff net email merrily telling me that I have a review. With luck, the next chapter will be up late this weekend.

Z.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Severus was exhausted. The potions that Poppy poured down his throat, many of which he was sure he should know, but couldn't place why, precisely, left his mind fuzzier than it was already. He languished in the darkened room, flinching from even the most casual touches of Madam Pomfrey and McGonagall, and every time he did so he hated himself for his weakness.

But more than hating himself, he hated the Dark Lord. He knew that he was like this – injured, ill, broken - because of Voldemort's ministrations. He couldn't remember his own name half the time, but he certainly remembered the circumstances under which he came to the care of Voldemort's torturers.

And now, he still wasn't certain of where he was, but it was clear, in his rare moments of lucidity, that he was no longer in Voldemort's dungeons. It was that thought that kept him from descending farther into madness and he clung to it as a drowning man might cling to a floating bit of driftwood. He was no longer in Voldemort's hands.

Memories surfaced, some clearer than others. Bits of knowledge about potions would flit through his mind, occasionally with clear images of children. He felt he should know them, and for some time he wondered if they were his children – then a part of his mind whispered, "Ridiculous." There were too many of them, far too many of them, and it eventually came to his attention that he had been their teacher.

Yes, that was right. He had taught them. Potions. He taught them how to brew potions.

The potions lore made more sense, and he made more of an effort to hang on to the thoughts about them. Each time a bit of lore about his potions came to him, he examined it, then catalogued it and filed it away: A decoction of Solomon's Seal will ward against snakes, but one is not to consume too much, for it will cause a great ache in the stomach. Armadillo bile for wits-sharpening, fluxweed should only be picked at the full moon.

And then there was a girl. Red haired and lovely, laughing blue eyes that always seemed to hold him in high regard. It galled him that he could not recall more of her – or rather, there were a thousand pieces of her that he could remember, but none seemed to fit together. There were still pieces missing, and try as he might, he could not find them all. They were pleasant memories, however, and while they were not whole, he enjoyed the sensation of knowing that some time in his past, he was happy.

He knew, peripherally, that Albus and Minerva were helping him, but he didn't know how. Many of the memories he gained smelled like sweets and spices, smells that he instinctively linked to Dumbledore. And many of the memories he was gaining were about the elderly wizard.

Once, he had been crying (just a child then, in truth), and the Headmaster of the school (Hogwarts! That was the name!) pulled him into a close embrace, whispering that everything would be fine. He could smell cinnamon and ginger, feel Dumbledore's soft beard against his face, and he cried unapologetically into that same beard. Great, wracking sobs caused his tiny body to convulse until he had no more tears left to cry. Afterwards, he could feel the ache of his sinuses, as if a weight pulled on them, and his eyes felt swollen and dry. Inside, he was taken with a preternatural calm, one so profound that he transcended all thoughts of his sadness and anger. And yet he could not recall what had caused such an outburst.

Now, as an adult, he cried again. It was not fine. Nothing was ever fine, but he couldn't remember why he thought that. No, that wasn't right, either. Voldemort proved otherwise in a thousand different ways, and many of those memories remained clear.

He would find himself drowning in the lake at Hogwarts, thousands of icy little knives stabbing into his body, cold water filling his lungs. He would scream and thrash, only to find that he was drowning faster for his troubles. He learned to give up, stop trying to swim, and simply let the black waters take him, for this was an almost painless way to die – until he found himself once more blind in Voldemort's dungeons, his bearded cheek lying against the cold stone floor of his cell, and the sounds of the Death Eaters laughing at him, mocking his pain.

Then would come fire, laid against his bare skin. He could never tell if the pain was from a torch or a match, or hot metal – although he suspected the latter most of the time. The Dark Lord had a fondness for pokers, and would torment his other prisoners with them. Severus saw no reason why he would be any different. The fire burned clean against his body, erupting up the left side. He smelled burning meat, and then had the unpleasant sensation of his flesh _tearing_ as the pressure was lifted. The sensation was sickening, and he vomited, or would have had there been anything in his stomach to void.

He came to want his periods of wakefulness. At first he hated them – they were bright, too bright for his newly healed eyes. His limbs were filled with a dull, aching pain that, while not as intense as that he experienced in the Dark Lord's dungeons, was nonetheless irritatingly constant. He hated that he was an invalid, unable to lift his arms to brush his hair out of his face, and he hated that he could not use his own hands to feed or clean himself. He laid almost immobile – too weak to move, but able to feel everything.

Time passed, although it was a difficult concept for him. He knew it passed, and in his periods of wakefulness people came and went, usually Poppy or Minerva, but sometimes Albus would come to sit with him. With no way to count time passing, he took it on faith that it did.

Poppy assured him that he was getting better. He didn't feel like it. So much of that nebulous time was spent lying in bed in pain. He envied his nurses' ability to simply get up and stretch, to walk around. He didn't know where he would go, didn't know what he would do if he could walk, but the very idea was attractive to him.

Ideas were something that were very attractive to him. He liked that he could hold them in his head for more than a few moments at a time, although he was still disappointed with his inability to recall his memories. One of his latest ideas was that Minerva was avoiding him. She had stopped coming to him while he was awake. He didn't know why. At first he thought that perhaps he was sleeping through her visits, but the more he was awake, the more likely it was that it wasn't that. She must be avoiding him.

He wasn't certain if he was pleased or upset by this revelation. On the one hand, someone that he had come to trust was avoiding him. On the other, that he had noticed it at all was something to be proud of, and he held on to that more than the possibility that she might not want to speak with him. It took him quite some time before he mustered the energy to speak with Poppy about it, and she had only said that he should speak with Minerva. He pointed out that it would be difficult to speak with her when she wasn't around (a point of logic that he was glad he could make), and was rewarded with Poppy only raising an eyebrow and mentioning that she would bring Minerva as soon as she could.

He was sitting up in bed when Minerva came in, led by Poppy. He had insisted that he be sitting instead of lying there, and for once Poppy hadn't argued. He regarded Minerva as she entered the threshold of the room, slinking in almost embarrassedly. He noted the way her shoulders slumped, and the tilt of her head, and wondered why she seemed so ill at ease.

"Severus," she said by way of greeting. Poppy left in a hurry, muttering something about needing to catalogue cotton balls. "You look well." Her mouth turned up slightly at the corners as she took a seat near his bed.

"I feel better," he admitted, and it was true.

They sat in silence for a moment. Severus debated on how to approach the problem, but gave up on subtlety as he wasn't certain of the best method to handle it. "You haven't come to see me."

He studied her while her mouth worked. She seemed flustered, embarrassed. It hadn't been his imagination, and he was pleased to know that he hadn't been wrong. That she might be truly discomfited didn't enter his mind until much, much later.

"Albus and I have been working on a way to release your memories," she said finally.

He nodded. That made sense. "And?"

"And, we're making progress. It has taken a lot out of us to do it."

"I see." He didn't, really. In fact, there was far too much that he did not understand, and it irritated him to have so much information and knowledge locked somewhere in his mind. He was happy that he was making logical jumps, and that was a step in the right direction, but currently there was too much that he simply did not have available to him. It was irksome.

"Severus," she said suddenly. He looked up, meeting her gaze. "What I'm – what Albus and I are doing is… difficult. We're treading ground that has never really been broken before. Do you understand?"

"I'm an invalid, not a child, Minerva," he snapped at her. Where had that come from? He wasn't certain, and he didn't much like it. It wasn't fair of him to snap at her when he had the same concerns himself, especially not when he had just been woolgathering on the same subject.

Minerva's eyes flashed in anger, but it was quickly squelched. "I want you to think very carefully on this," she continued as if his response had never been uttered. "We have the potential to see memories you would prefer never to be seen. We're doing something that neither Albus nor I have had any experience in. If you would like us to stop, at any time, you know that you can tell us, right?"

She was worried, and more than anything that concern frightened Severus. He gathered his strength, and put as much gentle force into the words as he could muster.

"Minerva, I want my life back. Right now, I don't know exactly what that entails. But I need to know what I've done, where I've been. It's all a part of me, and that's lost. If you can put them back together, do it. Whatever it takes."

Minerva nodded at him tearfully, and put a cautious hand on his shoulder. He leaned into it and closed his eyes, smelled her scent and relaxed for the first time since he had awakened today. He hoped that he would not regret the words he had just spoken.

* * *

A/N: So, yeah... This is the chapter. It took me awhile to get it up (the chapter, I mean, not the... yeah. My mind is in the gutter as I'm writing this. That's a bad sign.), largely because of work schedules, gaming schedules, and my need to get a little bit of HGSS Romantic Fluff (tm) out of my system. Go and read "A Heart Awakened to Joy" if you get a chance. Currently it's a one-shot, but it may expand after "Skies" finishes off. Never fear, gentle readers, Skies is my first priority. --Z 


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Summer was drawing on slowly – days turned into weeks, each one passing slowly, hotly and interminably into autumn. Any other summer tended to happen so quickly as to be almost instantaneous; the children left for the summer, and before anyone knew it, Minerva was being reminded that she needed to send out the letters for new students, inventories had to be made and Albus had to search for a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. And in that regard, the summer was as it always had been, though there were more repairs that had to be made the castle yet, and certainly more teachers to hire to replace those who had died or retired after the final battle. As the summer went on longer and longer and the weeks passed, Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall were reminded that they both had duties that had to be tended to, regardless of where they would prefer to spend their energies.

Poppy Pomfrey, for her part, managed her hospital wing and infirmary much like she always had. The addition of a patient over the summer was hardly even an inconvenience as far as she was concerned, and if anything it gave her a project when she would otherwise be sending letters to her various relations all over Britain, and occasionally visiting them while they nodded politely over her stories and suggested that perhaps she would enjoy visiting her cousin across the country – generally as far away from them as possible while still inhabiting the same island.

Dumbledore had asked her at the end of the final battle when all was said and done, and she had spent the bulk of her time in the aftermath with blood coating her arms up to her elbows and hearing the cries (even in her sleep) of those in so much pain that nothing could be done to alleviate it, if she would like to return home to her family. His eyes had been so sad, but resolute in the knowledge that he wanted her to do what was best for herself. She had smiled at the time, almost instantly. "This is home," she had said, and that was the end of it. As hard as the aftermath of the battle had been, it was over, and she could imagine no place that would need her more than Hogwarts. Now that Snape was home as well, she didn't regret her decision, and in fact was glad she had made it. Here she was truly needed, and that was all she had wanted from her life.

During the second rise of Voldemort, she hadn't known what Severus had done, but she'd had her suspicions. She was one of the few that Dumbledore had called on for her medical expertise when he had been abused at that madman's hands. The first time she had been horrified, but kept her mouth firmly shut, trusting in Dumbledore. When she discovered the Dark Mark on his arm while he was unconscious, she merely bandaged it, and marched to Dumbledore's office. She did not demand an explanation, in truth didn't care. It was not her place to ask questions, merely to heal the ills and wounds of those brought to her care. She merely asked if Dumbledore knew, and if he trusted Severus Snape. He'd said that he did, and that was enough. She'd left the bandages on when she deposited him back in his rooms, a silent message that she was aware. As she expected, he interpreted her message correctly, and started coming to her more for his ills from Voldemort's ministrations. She said nothing, he offered no information, but made certain that she never had to ask for any potion in her inventory when it ran low.

It was the memory of that type of matter-of-fact kindness that kept Poppy going with his slow recovery. No one would ever accuse Severus Snape of being nice, but he'd had his moments. He'd hated anyone to make a fuss over him, and she respected that, although she'd had times when she would have preferred to throttle him rather than argue over his need to get some rest. So often she had told him that he needed to slow down, and he would glare at her wordlessly. For someone with such a fantastic vocabulary, he rarely indulged in its use around her. Sometimes she wondered if it was a conscious decision on his part, if he knew that his acerbic tongue would get him into more trouble than if he simply kept his mouth shut. She thought privately that he didn't need words. His dark eyes were certainly more than enough to silence students and run shivers down the spines of his colleagues. She had known him since he was a child, however, and knew better than to quail at his disagreeable nature.

Poppy's expertise was such that broken bones and cuts could be healed within minutes, and more traumatic wounds were cured in days; Severus' long convalescence was both trying and a challenge, and she was determined that she would rise to the occasion. It did not, however, make this business of Albus and Minerva waltzing in and out of his head any easier. She was half irate and half jealous of their work, and while the three of them had been working nearly non-stop, their obligations to him were very different.

The trio that had come together for Severus' convalescence slowed their meetings to a couple of times a week, always in Poppy's office. Minerva and Albus had been working tirelessly, and if nothing else, these meetings ensured that they had time to eat, to rest. She had a suspicion that neither had been doing very much of either, and the strain was showing, though entirely by their own design.

"He has his good days and bad days, to be certain," Poppy said as she poured the tea. The sweet scent of bergamot and citrus wafted up from the pot, filled the room with the pleasant, understated aroma. As she spent the most time with him during his waking hours, she made it a point to give them updates on his physical condition while they recovered from their sojourns into his mind. "Just the other day he told me how to make Wolfsbane in such fine detail that I think even I could have managed it with my meager potion-brewing skills, but still couldn't tell me the name of the his potions professor when he was at Hogwarts. He's frustrated in the extreme, and only getting more so."

She sat down behind her desk and sipped the tea, surveying her two compatriots in this mess. Minerva and Albus reclined on the low sofa, taking their tea silently, although both nodded that they were listening. They sat without saying a word for a long moment before Minerva spoke.

"Perhaps I should talk to the older Severus again."

Albus stared hard at her over his glasses, then looked to Poppy who shrugged.

"Is that wise?" the older wizard asked.

Minerva looked into her tea cup and took a long time to answer. "If you mean will I snap at him again, the answer is I don't think so. But once again we're faced with a plateau in his recovery, and we need more information. I think it can be found at the mouth, but someone needs to be willing to get it. Poppy hasn't been in, and I think it's best if she doesn't – that she concentrate on the physical aspects."

Poppy's mouth thinned to a line. She still wasn't necessarily comfortable with the other two bouncing in and out of Severus' head the way they were, but she knew that this was their best, and perhaps only option.

"Besides," Minerva said, looking at the mediwitch sideways, "someone needs to make certain that Albus and I don't lose ourselves in there and will be able to pull us out if necessary."

That was true enough, and Poppy was mollified for the moment. She sighed. "When do you want to do it?"

"Soon. He generally falls asleep after lunch, yes?"

Poppy nodded. "I don't like it."

Albus took up the thread. "I know, none of us do. Going inside his head like that is disconcerting, and not very pleasant."

"I wouldn't know, would I?" she snapped. Immediately after saying it, she clapped a hand over her mouth, shocked and ashamed that she had said that. "I'm terribly sorry, Headmaster. I don't know where that came from." She felt herself burn with embarrassment.

"Don't you?" Minerva asked gently. She came around to the side of the desk and put a gentle hand on Poppy's shoulder. In a gesture reminiscent of Severus, she leaned into the hand and closed her eyes.

"It's straining, I know, Poppy," Albus said with equal compassion. "We're all doing all we can."

Without opening her eyes, she nodded. "It's just so…" she trailed off, at a loss for words.

"Frustrating?" Albus offered.

When Poppy opened her eyes, he was sitting next to her, and offered a fresh cup of tea and a biscuit. She took them both gratefully. She hadn't meant to snap; she was supposed to be the anchor in all of this.

"We can't do everything by ourselves, Poppy." Albus' blue eyes twinkled sadly at her. "But let us save this until tomorrow morning, give us time to rest up for what's to some, hmm?"

"Oh!" Poppy exclaimed, remembering one of the things she had wanted to tell them. "His hands should be ready by tomorrow. The bandages should be coming off."

"Then all the more reason to rest up," Albus said, and looked up to Minerva who still stood with a hand on Poppy's shoulder. "It looks like tomorrow is going to be an eventful day."

* * *

A/N: Thanks again to my reviewers. You guys are so neat - not to mention, I've been finding some of the greatest fics through you. -Z. 


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Minerva rose early in the morning, but not before the house elves had already drawn a bath for her. She silently blessed the little creatures as she lowered herself into the steaming water and promptly scrubbed herself nearly raw for the day ahead. Between the trip into Severus' head and Poppy's removal of the bandages that had been binding his hands, it promised to be, as Albus had said, a very eventful day.

She took breakfast in her rooms, declining the invitation to eat with the staff. She knew that if she were to try to eat with them that she would never actually consume any food – instead the excitement would quash all appetite, and they couldn't afford that now. As it was, she had to will herself to slow down and eat the rich, grease laden food. She was giddy as a schoolgirl; part of her hated it, but a larger part was pleased to know she was still capable of such emotions.

If she were to be honest, she hadn't the faintest idea of how she was going to deal with the Old Snape. While she hadn't gone so far as to say that she had a plan of attack, she also hadn't revealed to Albus or Poppy that she was working from nearly instinct alone. Her current plan was to go to the mouth of the river and talk to Old Snape. That was it.

She noted with some amusement as she picked over her eggs that even she and Albus had started referring to the two disparate personalities in Severus' head as Old Snape and Young Severus, though the appearance of Old Snape was not substantially different in age than that of the one lying in the Hospital Wing bed. It was an extremely apt description, though perhaps "Bitter Severus" or "Irritating Git Severus" might have been better.

Neither Albus nor she had been to the mouth of the river since the last time when she had snapped at Old Snape, despite the near-daily trips to the Source to help piece together the memories with Young Severus. The work there was trying and difficult, fraught with frustration. Minerva half thought that the main reason for wanting to explore the mouth was to break up the monotony of the work at the Source. It wasn't the best reason, but it was there nonetheless.

They had made the agreement to enter Severus' mind after lunch when he was likely to go to sleep by himself. Potion induced sleep made it difficult to navigate his mind, they had found, and thus if it was possible to enter during normal sleep, it was all to the good. Unfortunately, the morning passed slowly for Minerva, giving her time to think about possibilities and plans, and the ideas that passed through her own mind were becoming too nerve-wracking to ponder for any length of time. While there had been no indication that Severus could manipulate his mindscape consciously, the possibility was still there. More than anything, they wanted to avoid pushing him into rash action that would cause the mindscape to alter dramatically.

These were possibilities that they had read about in the small amount they had found on the subject. Oneiromancy as a course of study was one that was largely left to obscurity. Most experts in divination had more reliable methods of divining the future, or at least ones that didn't depend on waiting for a dream to come along that might have a prophetic nature. As it was, Albus had mentioned that their activities weren't true oneiromancy, but did have their roots in the same place. It had provided a helpful starting point for research, and eventually they had come across some vague references to interacting in another person's mind- or dreamscape. It could be inferred, although it was never explicitly stated, that the owner of the mind could manipulate it if he or she chose. That was a chilling thought, especially for someone whose mind was as fractured as Severus'. There was no telling what could potentially happen.

With these thoughts filling the morning, Minerva went about her daily tasks, hoping to make the time pass more quickly. Soon, although not enough for her taste, a house elf knocked presented herself to announce lunch with Headmaster Dumbledore. Minerva smiled a bit at the doting respect given to the name, but only nodded her approval to the little creature before gathering herself to join Albus and Poppy.

Lunch was a simple affair in the mediwitch's office, though when Minerva arrived, Poppy was nowhere to be seen. Albus had already put away a fair amount of food by himself, and gestured for her to do the same.

"Poppy?" she asked as she seated herself. The food did smell delicious, and while her stomach seemed to be largely in knots because of nerves, it unraveled enough to let her enjoy the possibility of a meal.

"She's in with Severus; he's taking his lunch." Albus replied, brushing crumbs from his beard. "Try the beef. I think they seasoned it with rosemary."

Minerva nodded, served herself. The greens were fresh, and the meat was so tender it almost melted in her mouth. She sat back with satisfaction while waiting for Poppy to join them and discuss anything that they felt needed to be gone over.

When Poppy did finally join them, flyaway hairs circled her face which was a ghastly shade of red and her apron was askew. Her eyes were narrowed in anger, She said nothing, simply flopped into her chair at her desk. Albus heaped a plate with beef and greens, pushed it across the desk to her. "Rough time?"

Poppy glared at him, but took the offered food. Once she had eaten a few bites her face relaxed, returning to a more normal color. "He is a difficult, obstinate, uncooperative, cantankerous lout. He wouldn't eat, then when I finally convinced him to eat, he told me that he didn't want the porridge I was offering. I resorted to bribing him with taking the bandages off this evening."

Minerva and Albus looked sideways at each other, the latter's eyes twinkling mischievously. Even Minerva felt a little spring of mirth well up inside her at the thought.

"Weren't you going to remove them today, anyway?" she asked, trying to keep the humor out of her voice.

Poppy snorted. "Yes, which made it a perfect bribe. But he wasn't graceful about it."

Albus was taken with a sudden coughing fit.

"Oh, laugh all you want. I'll make you take him on his first trip to the toilet after this. We'll see who's laughing then," Poppy snapped, but now, despite her stern tone, even the corners of her mouth were turning up.

Soon, all three were laughing, and wiping their eyes of tears. Though Minerva knew that it was mostly a release of their collective anxiety, the sensation of letting go their cares for the moment was a welcome one.

"So, are you ready, Minerva?" Albus asked as soon as they had recovered themselves.

She took stock of herself, then nodded curtly. "The sooner we get started, the less time I'll have to lose my nerve." She silently blessed Poppy and Albus for not questioning her on the intended plan. She still didn't know what she was going to do when she got there.

The sensation of entering the mindscape was almost like apparating – a pop and the feeling that one's insides had been left behind in the last place the body had been. Fortunately, the sensation passed quickly, and they were hovering above the hematite-colored river. It was running sluggishly today, and Minerva raised an eyebrow at Albus.

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head slightly. His beard and hair were ruddy in the light of the geometric sky. It was disconcerting, and a bit sickening, as if he had been eating raw, bloody flesh.

Minerva pushed the thought away firmly. It could lead nowhere good. "I'll go to the mouth first, if you want to just go to the Source and work with Young Severus," she said.

"Are you certain that's a good idea?" he asked, peering at her over the rims of his spectacles. "What if you get into some trouble there? Perhaps I should be there to monitor what's happening."

He was fretting, Minerva realized. "I'll be fine. You worry too much," she said with a smile she didn't feel.

"You don't worry enough," he grumbled, but let it go.

They parted ways, Minerva setting out downstream, following the course of the river. It twisted more, now, she realized, and filed that bit of information away. She wasn't certain what it could mean, but very few things were without meaning in the mindscape, regardless of their size.

Despite the increase in twists and turns, she found the mouth easily enough, with it's great waterfall and mud pit at the bottom. Old Snape sat at the bottom on the side of the pit, only dangling his feet into the pit rather than wallowing in it as he had been on her previous trip. Minerva followed the course of the waterfall down, and set down gently next to him.

Without looking up, he said, "Hullo, Minerva. Aren't you done tormenting me yet?"

She lowered herself to sit next to him, wrinkled her nose at the foul smell of unwashed man and the peculiar, metallic odor of the mud. "Is what I'm doing torment?"

He turned his head to look at her from the corner of his eyes. The black orbs shone dully in the crimson light. "I would prefer you let me be." His voice was hoarse, raw. His shoulders drooped as if exhausted, the weight of a world laid upon them.

"Sometimes we do things we do not prefer, but are necessary."

"See?" he said angrily. He turned to face her, and she was taken by the grotesque nature of his features, enlarged and elongated like a caricature. His nose was monstrously out of proportion to his face, dominating it. His already thin, sneering lips had shrunk in on themselves, becoming a single line etched into his face among the other, uglier scars. Hair prone to becoming greasy had not fared well coated in the mud. "See what I mean? You come here to taunt me."

"No," she said gently. His lack of aggression she was telling, but of what she wasn't certain. "I'm not here to taunt you."

"Then why do you come?"

Minerva debated how to respond. "What is this place?" she asked instead.

"That's not an answer." He turned back to staring into the mud pit. His clawed fingers clasped together in his lap and his toes trailed in the mud, tracing patterns into it that stayed for a minute, then disappeared, swirling into the morass. Once the pattern looked like a kneeling man, then like a serpent poised to strike.

"It's part of the answer. I want to know that we have the same perceptions of this place. Only then will we be able to accomplish anything."

He said nothing for a long moment, then nodded. "What are you trying to accomplish?"

Not for the first time, Minerva wasn't certain of how to respond. "To be honest, I'm not sure. A very good friend of mine is… hurt. In a lot of pain. I want to help him, but I don't know that what I am doing is right, or if what I do is for his good or for mine." She hadn't meant to say that. She had no idea of how he would react, if he would become aggressive, if he would turn within himself and shut her out - there were too many unknowns, and she wondered if this had been the best idea.

To her relief, he didn't become a raving madman like she had thought as a distinct possibility, but he was silent, not moving, hardly breathing for an uncomfortably long time. At length, he nodded again. "This is a prison," he said simply.

"Why?"

He looked sideways at her, smiled a dispirited, bitter smile. "Because I am an evil man, Minerva."

Taken aback by this statement, she exhaled sharply, unaware that she had been holding her breath. "No, no you aren't."

A short, barking laugh emitted from his lips. "Aren't I? Then what is this?" He leaned over and took a lump of mud in his hands, packing it into a ball and squeezing the hematite emotions out of it. When he opened his hands again, all that remained was a fist sized ball of mud. He held it out to Minerva, who hesitated before taking it.

When the ball transferred to her hands, she felt awash with grief, then became consumed by the vision the mud showed.

_Long ago, too long to count, the Death Eaters raided a small village in Scotland. Old beyond reckoning, the walls of the simple stone houses seemed to be untouched by the fire that ripped through their roofs, until a tall, thin man in dark billowing robes moved down the road that divided the town. He pointed his wand to each one in turn, and his mouth thinned in grim satisfaction as the stones exploded outward, consuming everything in the flame. Screams echoed through the village, and laughter; bitter, loathsome, inhuman laughter rang clear from screams. The man paused at the threshold of one house, looked inside – the door was open, ripped from its hinges. Inside a wide back faced him and he could see the outline of a young woman's legs spread wide. The shrillest of screams came from inside, and the masked face turned towards the door._

"_Good, you're here!" the voice behind the mask said. "Do something to shut her up while I have my fun, eh? Maybe when I'm done, you can have a go."_

_There was only a brief moment of hesitation, then _"Silencio!" _The thin man was about to continue on his way, then said, "Be quick about it. We have much to do tonight."_

_The wide-backed man grunted assent, and turned back to his prize. The thinner man continued firing the town, then returned to the only home that hadn't burned. The wide backed man had finished, leaving the girl (not older than twenty, surely) lying on the rough table, unmoving._

"_Is she dead?" the thin man asked in a crisp voice._

"_Naw. I thought you might want to have her, then do her in. She's all yours." He turned to leave. "Be quick about it. There's much to do tonight." He obviously thought he was clever. _

_The thin man moved to the table, grabbed the girl by the legs and pulled her to a more suitable position. He lifted his robes, staring at the girl's eyes. She looked as if a stunning charm had been used. Abruptly, he let the robes drop again, and pointed his wand at her temple, casting Avada Kedavra. The green ray erupted from the tip of his wand, and she shuddered her last breath._

The vision was done, and Minerva sat next to Old Snape, aghast.

"There is a common misconception that casting the Avada Kedavra requires hatred. It does not, simply a will to kill." The voice was low, and he slid from his perch on the edge into the pit, coating himself in the mud and emotions.

"You didn't rape her." She made it a statement.

"Not her, no. There was no need to. She was broken and nearly dead. No interest, really." He dunked his head underneath the mud. When he came up for air, he looked at Minerva, mud streaming down the side of his face and into his eyes. He didn't seem to notice. "Still here? Do you need to see more?"

"No," Minerva said. Her eyes welled with tears, hot and angry. Her hands were covered in the hematite mud. "I'm leaving."

"Good riddance, Minerva." His voice was toneless.

"I'm coming back," she said defiantly.

"Of course. Damnable Gryffindors."

She made her way back up the river, following its twists and turns. She wondered about them, what she had seen. Had that been a vision induced by Voldemort? Was it a true memory? She couldn't tell, and for a time, her own thoughts twisted as much as the river. His mind was like that, she decided. Nothing was simple, not his actions, his memories, his reasons for doing any of the things he did.

She came to the Source more quickly than she had anticipated, and found Albus chatting with Young Severus. The boy looked somber while he worked, and Albus was leaning against a tree. He had evidently been telling the child about his own youth.

"And wouldn't you know it, she transfigured that bear into a mewling little kitten, just as quick as can be. Of course, kittens are known for their sharp little claws, and it soon made short work of my hands for all our troubles – ah, but here's Minerva. I'll have to tell you the rest at a later time."

Minerva gave a falsely cheery smile as she approached, and sighed with some relief when the discordant sound of the river receded. "Hello, Severus, how are you today?"

He gave a tightlipped smile. "Very well, thank you. Will you come and sit with us?"

As this was more of an invitation than any she had received before, she acquiesced gracefully. "Certainly, although I can't stay long. What are you working on?"

"The girl. I don't even know her name." He frowned. "You'd think that would be important enough to remember, wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps it's here, we just haven't found it yet," she said. She looked at Albus, who just shrugged.

The child's frown deepened. "Maybe," he said doubtfully. "I'm starting to wonder if it's even here, anywhere."

Minerva let that go, and watched in silence as he tried piecing together two fragments that clearly didn't match. She looked around for another pile to keep her hands busy, and found one of a Hogwarts memory, of gazing at stars from the Astronomy Tower. She took two pieces in hand, and put them together, trying various combinations until she found two sides that matched. To her surprise, the two pieces melded together, and she examined them, attempting to find a reason why they would meld when so many others would not.

She realized soon enough, and to her horror, why the two pieces interfused. A seam in the middle of them was the color of hematite – the same color that still stained her hands. She gasped a little as another memory took her.

_The night was dark and chilly, but pleasant if one used a warming charm as he did now on top of the Astronomy Tower. His patrol didn't generally take him this direction, but tonight it seemed appropriate. He looked out over the unlit grounds, and then up to the stars which shone brightly. He rarely looked at the stars anymore. They were the sole province of fools and romantics, of which he was neither. They were beautiful, however, and he was not one who was completely untouched by beauty – if anything, the cold and distant lights put him in mind of his own esoteric passions, and that was enough for him. He turned away from the lights, then followed the stairs down and down to the darker corners of the castle. Tonight he would turn in early to pursue his own thoughts._

Minerva tore herself away from the memory. "Albus," she said softly. "We should leave now."

He raised an eyebrow at her, but nodded. They made their goodbyes to Young Severus (was it her imagination, but did he look a touch older now?) and left the Source, returning to their own bodies without saying a word. They had much to discuss.

* * *

A/N: As always, I appreciate critique, bothgood and bad; I only require that it be polite. Regardless of the content, I still get a warm fuzzy feeling everytime I see an email from the bot of FFN. 


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Severus awoke with a start. His dreams were odd, difficult to remember, like so much else he had experienced here. Minerva had talked to him in his dreams, but of what he couldn't recall. He had been a small boy and an old man, frequently at the same time. A river, trees, a great waterfall…

He was confused, he recognized, and even then there was a thrill of elation that he knew the sensation for what it was. He worked to put his thoughts in order. Somewhere, from the depths of his fractured memories there was a lesson, instructions on how to order one's mind. If he concentrated, he could find it. There it was. He couldn't recall how he had come by the knowledge, whose voice it was who had taught him, but the lore was there nonetheless.

He closed his eyes, breathed deeply of the now-familiar scents around him. Soap and lavender were the primary odors. Calendula. Gentian. A cool-spicy hint of wintergreen. Laurel and rosemary. Cataloguing each one gave him a sense of peace, of serenity. After identifying each one, he drew a picture in his mind of the herb, listed it's merits. Calendula for burns, gentian for digestion. Wintergreen and laurel to relieve pains, rosemary for… well, rosemary was such an all-purpose herb, that he quickly lost count of its uses. _Rosemary for remembrance_, he thought wryly, his lips twisting into a ghost of a smile.

Once his exercise was done, the herbs identified, he returned to the problem of the dreams. He grasped at the apparitions that hovered at the corners of his vision, each one darting away as soon as he thought he might grab one. Finally, he closed his eyes, willing himself to slow down, to concentrate. He was rewarded with success, but not what he had hoped for.

An image of death swam before his eyes, of a broad-backed man raping a muggle woman, then offering the prize to him. Severus watched in horror as he pointed his own wand to her temple and killed her instead. He reeled with the nightmare, opening his eyes to stave off the effects of it. The ceiling of the room he occupied narrowed to a single point in his vision, then abruptly expanded. He gasped for air, blinked owlishly. Any moment Poppy would come bustling in, to discover what had caused the ruckus in here. Any moment.

But Poppy did not come, and he thought that maybe it was his own imagination. That was plausible, even likely. He couldn't trust his own mind. The potions weren't helping, making him fuzzy-headed when he needed clarity. This dream-vision, though. It was not the result of potions, nor, he was certain, the result of Voldemort's ministrations. That was a true memory, one that he had participated in willingly. The thought made his stomach turn. He'd known he had done some terrible things, but was that indicative of his life?

There was another memory, but he was frightened of what that one might contain. Still, his curiosity had the better of him. Tentatively, hesitantly, he grasped after the memory. This time it didn't dance out of his mental hold, but slipped into it, coming willingly to his mind, unfolding in front of him. A chill night and bright stars, vague allusions to darker passions. A voice in his mind came unbidden: _"Like the one you just experienced?"_

He pushed that thought aside, refused to think about it quite yet. The stars were beautiful, though. He concentrated on the stars, their bright pinpricks of light forming constellations. Cassiopeia, Auriga, Lepus. Others he didn't recognize immediately. He breathed deeply, concentrating on the stars as he had the potions, the herbs. Stars he didn't know as well, not a realm of his specialty.

Poppy came as he laid staring at the ceiling, not seeing it at all. Her arrival broke his reverie, and he jerked spastically at her presence.

"Good evening, Severus." Firmly, she took him around the shoulders with one strong arm and helped him to a sitting position while she propped pillows behind his back with her wand. He wanted to push her away, but hadn't the strength. He was not worth this. His broken memories proved it.

Poppy, unaware of his thoughts, hummed softly as she prepared a dose of a potion, a tune that plucked at the strings of his memory. He didn't quite recognize it, but thought he should. A few drops of the potion were poured into a spoon with a steady hand and she smiled at him. "Open up," she said, her voice calm, as if dealing with a child.

He turned his head from her, and shook it slightly. "No. I don't want it." He sounded like a child even to himself. He frowned a little at the thought. Clearly he wasn't a child, as his new memories proved. He pushed them away, though, tried not to shake at the thought of… no. Not now. He would not think about them now.

Poppy's eyes widened. "It's just something to calm you. We're going to try taking the bandages off this evening, remember?" Her voice was soft, pleasant; he imagined it was what a mother should sound like. He looked in his memory catalogue – no, no memories of a mother. He would have to make a note to look for those later.

"Bandages?" he repeated. He looked at his hands. Ah, those bandages. That was right. She had said something about that earlier. Today? Perhaps it was earlier today. Time was still a difficult concept.

"Yes, dear. On your hands. I think they should be healed enough that we can take a look at them."

He was frightened, but wanted to be able to hold his spoon more. He hated being fed by hand like an invalid (_but you are_, a traitorous voice in his head said), hated being bathed, his personal functions attended to because he was unable to attend to them himself.

"I don't want the potion," he said resolutely and glared at her, daring her to say otherwise.

"Fine then, fine." Calm, implacable. Nothing seemed to phase her. He wondered if knowing what he had done would ruffle her appearance. Probably not. Little seemed to.

She put the bottle and spoon aside and examined the white bandaging. She took his left hand in hers first and turned it this way and that, studying the way the bandages were wrapped. Surprisingly nimble fingers plucked at his hand and he only felt the pressure dully through the gauze. Soon, a long length of gauze had been removed and he stared at what laid underneath.

The last memory he had of his hands had been of poorly healed claws – the bones and joints shattered and healed, shattered again and re-healed, covered in blood that had never washed off. These hands were… not perfect. Not by any stretch of the imagination. They were covered in ropy scars from burns, the nails had not yet grown in all the way. But they looked like hands, felt like they were his. The fingers were long, and if they were not covered in the pale skin they should be, they were still shapely. He stretched his fingers experimentally, and was dismayed that the effort was so difficult, that it felt that they had not been used for some time.

Poppy gave him a long, measuring look. "It will take a bit of work before they'll be right, but it gives me hope," she offered.

He looked up with tears in his eyes. "No, no. They're fine." He closed his hands into fists and opened them again; they didn't quite open all the way – the ligaments still needed to be stretched out some. "They're…" he trailed off, staring at them. Not perfect. Not by a long shot. "Fine," he finished lamely. "They're just fine."

She beamed at him, then. She was pleased with herself, he could tell that. "Good. I brought you something then. I thought it might give you something to work on while we heal other things."

She produced a book from out of his line of sight, probably from under the bed. He reached his hands out for it, eager to put his mind to something else. _Potions, a Primer,_ the title said, embossed into the spine.His hands shook from the unaccustomed weight, and she helped by guiding the book to his lap, opening the front cover to reveal a beautifully illustrated mandrake on the front page, emblazoned with the title of the book.

"It's a bit remedial, but I think it will help jog your memory."

Memories. He wasn't certain he wanted those anymore. Even so, he idly flipped through the pages, taking in the illustrations and musing through the ponderous writing. Still, the contents didn't quite satisfy his craving for something else.

"Poppy?"

"Hmm?" She said absentmindedly as she moved to other parts of the room, tidying as she went.

"Could you bring me a book on…" he trailed off, searching for the word. Stars. Astronomy. "Astronomy?"

She turned and gave him a full grin. "Certainly," she said. "That is certainly something I can do."

* * *

A/N: See? Even in the midst of the angst, there is a distinct bright light.


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

The evening was fine and perhaps a little unseasonably warm, so much so that Poppy, Albus and Minerva had moved their late evening meal to the Astronomy tower, taking advantage of the cooler breezes as they whisked over and through Hogwarts, bringing sweet and savory summer scents with them.

"Is it safe to leave him unattended?" Minerva asked querulously. She hadn't approved of their plan to leave him alone in the hospital wing, and had made her thoughts on the subject well known.

"He'll be fine." Poppy's fork was half way to her mouth when she started speaking, but she set it down on her plate. "There's a house elf sitting with him in case he wakes up, which is doubtful, with orders to come get me. We all need some fresh air, and for once I would like to have a conversation about Severus that doesn't feel like the walls are about to close in on us."

Dumbledore cleared his throat and nodded. "I agree, all things considered. For that matter, we might want to explore the possibility of bringing him out of that room, if it's amenable to Poppy."

Poppy bobbed her head in assent. "I actually think that would be an excellent idea. You know he asked for a book on astronomy this evening, after I removed the bandages?"

"Really?" Minerva asked faintly. The shared memory of stargazing was still on her mind, as well as the other, darker memory. She didn't think it was an accident that it should be so close to the surface of his thoughts. She wondered what else he remembered, how it would affect him.

"Minerva?"

McGonagall's head snapped up as she realized Albus had been gently trying to get her attention. "Yes? What? I'm sorry. My mind wandered a little."

"I asked how the talk with Severus went. You said you wanted to wait until this evening?" He made it a question, but it was clearly a command for release of information. She wondered if Severus had found reporting to Dumbledore similarly disconcerting when he had been a spy. Had Albus been aware of the activities of his pet Death Eater?

"Poppy first. There's a lot to discuss, to report." She stressed the word report, looking to Dumbledore for any sign of reaction.

"Of course, of course." He smiled blandly. "Poppy?"

"I've been concerned about the effects of this treatment on him," she started, "but with the interest in the book I gave him this evening, and even a request for an astronomy text, I can only consider this to be a step in the right direction."

"Did he seem – not himself when you looked in on him?" Minerva asked. Albus shot her a sharp look, but she ignored it.

"How do you mean? He was agitated, listless when I removed the bandages," Poppy said, "but no more so than he has been."

Minerva shook her head. "I- discovered something this afternoon that has me wondering. I saw two memories today, whole, complete memories. The first was a memory that Old Snape gave me, made from the memory mud. He squeezed out most of the water from the mud, made a ball of it and handed it to me. The memory was… disturbing." She shuddered visibly, although no wind had blown over the top of the Astronomy tower to cause a chill. "I have little doubt that it was a true memory. The second was of being on top of the Astronomy Tower, simply looking at the stars. It wasn't an objectionable memory in and of itself, but it had allusions to other, less pleasant memories. The second one was created from two of the memory fragments from the trees, and a bit of the water."

She looked soberly to Albus and then to Poppy. The latter pressed her lips to a firm line, the former simply nodded.

"It makes sense in a way: memories are both good and bad, each one has its positive and negative parts. Regardless of that, they are still what makes us whole." Albus tugged gently on his beard. "Still, it's a little disturbing to think that so many of his memories need the addition of those less pleasant emotions to make them whole."

Poppy raised her eyebrows. "Is that it, do you think? Is that the key?"

"I would wager that it is a large part of it, although I don't for a moment think that the solution is quite that simple."

A house elf appeared with a soft pop and tugged on Poppy's apron. "Master Snape is shouting, he is." The little elf looked a touch rattled, hopping from one foot to the other and nervously pulling at her ears.

Poppy sighed. "If you'll excuse me. I don't know how long this will take, so I'll just bid you good night."

The other two made noises of farewell as she left. Albus and Minerva stared at each other from across the small table they had levitated up to the top of the tower, neither saying anything.

"Are you going to speak, Minerva, or do I have to drag it out of you?" he asked peevishly. He searched around in his pockets, finally fishing out some sort of hard candy. "Tamarind?"

"Thank you, but no." She shook her head. "The memory I saw. The one he gave me. It was of a Death Eater raping a girl, then Severus killed her. Some sort of village raid."

Albus' cheeks puckered as he exhaled slowly through pursed lips. "I see."

"No, I don't think you do. He did it when he was working for the Order as our spy. Did you know what he was doing then? Was this with your sanction?" Minerva's voice was becoming shrill.

"Had I known that you would come across those kinds of memories, I wouldn't have let you talk to him." His voice was softly neutral, intended to be calming. Minerva didn't want to be calm.

"Was it something that you knew about?" she asked again, her voice becoming dangerously low.

Albus shrugged. "That particular incident? I suppose he probably reported it to me. I'd have to check my journals for a date, but I don't recall it off hand."

"What?" She tried to keep her voice as steady as his had been, but failed. She felt a jab in her chest, a sharp pain of betrayal. Someone she had known well, had trusted was now revealing his complicity in a massacre.

"It's not as easy as all that, Minerva," he said delicately, but his voice was not untroubled. "War is a terrible thing. There are times when choices need to be made. We don't always have the best choices."

"But you allowed him to teach here, to influence children!" Breathing was difficult. She felt she had to gasp for each breath.

"Don't blame Severus." There was warning in his voice, the lightness giving way to a stronger emotion. Anger? Fear? She couldn't tell. "He's a good man at heart, and one who now needs our help."

"You didn't see what he did, Albus," she whispered. Tears burned in her eyes, unsure of who she felt had betrayed her more.

"Don't dare give me that look, Minerva." Dumbledore was standing now, energy crackling around him like electricity in a storm. "You didn't have to tell him that he needed to be strong, to pull himself together every time he came home to report to me that he had been forced to kill another woman, or when he shook so badly with the Cruciatus that he couldn't stand. You weren't the one who had to send him back to that madman, each time wondering if that would be the last. You weren't there when I stayed awake for a week, searching him out after he disappeared. As I recall, you were one of the ones who told me that he was likely dead, that to try to convince the Order to retrieve him was folly, that it would only cause a greater rift in the fragile alliance we had pulled together!" His eyes blazed, his hair and beard standing out. His anger was palpable in the night.

Minerva stared up at him, the unshed tears now pouring down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Albus," she murmured, though for what she wasn't certain. Doubting Severus, perhaps. "There must have been another way…"

Abruptly, the energy faltered and died. "No. There wasn't. We wouldn't have been able to win this war without him – and for that he needed to be as villainous as any of Voldemort's followers. Do you see?"

She didn't. She saw Severus killing a young woman, standing by as a man raped her. She saw Albus Dumbledore sending him to his damnation. She saw herself whispering words of encouragement to Severus to spy for the order, and she saw the pain in Albus' eyes when she had told him that they didn't have a hope of convincing the Order to recover their spy – that he was likely dead. Merlin, she was just as culpable as he was, as any of them. She didn't want to see any of it.

Minerva looked up to Albus, tears shining in her eyes. His blue eyes looked black in the night air, chilling and unforgiving.

"May we all have the luxury of our conscience now that Voldemort is dead," he intoned, and swept off the tower floor, leaving Minerva to her place at the table. When she stood from her chair to follow, her legs gave way and she sank to her knees, all energy having drained from her body. Her light summer robes pooled in a dark puddle around her. She wept for Severus, for Albus. She wept for everyone who had died, who languished in St. Mungo's. She wept for herself.

* * *

A/N: So I'm going through and doing a lot of editing to repost this on a different archive (some of you even know where it is). It's given me a lot of insight into my writing, which is definitely a good thing. It also means that I'm tragically slow on email -a less good thing.

Minerva seems to spend a lot of time crying, doesn't she? I never really thought of her as the weepy type, but every time I turn around she's bawling her eyes out. Go figure, huh?


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

"Poppy?" Minerva called softly as she entered the Hospital Wing. Her voice was hoarse, scratchy. She swallowed a couple of times.

Long rows of beds lined the walls, although two were missing from the line. Those had been transfigured into wingback chairs and hadn't yet been returned to their former state. Moonlight streamed through the high windows, casting a ghostly tint to the ward.

"In here, dear," Minerva heard a voice call from Poppy's office. She crossed the floor in a few quick strides, poked her head into the office. The only light was from a single lamp, barely enough to illuminate the desk. A book laid open on the desk and Poppy poured over it, her head propped up by her hand. She flipped a page.

"Come in, come in. Don't just hover. Would you like some tea?" She looked up then and her jaw dropped. "Goodness! Are you all right? You look a mess!"

Minerva supposed she probably did. She had spent the last hour on top of the Astronomy Tower sobbing. Her eyes felt swollen and they were probably red and bloodshot. Her sinuses had been plugged for at least as long as that, and they felt atrocious. Closing her eyes, she could feel herself sway on her feet. She opened them again, grabbed the doorframe. "Tea would be nice," she said faintly.

She allowed Poppy to guide her to the sofa, barely heard her as she ordered up some tea from a house-elf. She didn't even realize that the tea had arrived until a hot cup was being pressed into her hands.

"Tell me what happened?" Poppy asked after Minerva had finished the first cup. It was a request for information, not a demand.

Minerva hesitated. She knew that if she simply said she didn't want to talk about it, Poppy would let it go, not ask again. She certainly didn't want to start crying again, but it felt as if all the tears he had to give were gone, deposited on the stones of the Tower. She remained silent for a long moment, took a sip of tea, and forged ahead. "I- discovered something, and I don't think it was anything that I wanted to know."

She launched into the description of the memories she had gained from Severus, of her feelings of betrayal, of Dumbledore's calm acceptance of her revelation. She described her own feelings of guilt, and finally her crying jag atop the Astronomy Tower after Albus had left. When she finished, she laid against the back of the sofa, heaved a great sigh.

"I don't think I've cried this much in my entire life. I'm supposed to be the strong one."

Poppy patted her arm, smiled kindly. "I think we're into the realm of extenuating circumstances. I won't tell the students if you won't."

Minerva smiled at that. "I don't know what to do, though. Could I- could I stay with Severus tonight?"

The mediwitch raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure that's wise right now?" She started clearing the remains of their tea away, murmuring under her breath while she made a few short flicks of her wand.

"I've cried all the emotion out, and I think I've grounded myself firmly in reality again." She tried to make her voice light, but failed. "I think I need a reminder of why we're here," she added soberly.

Poppy pursed her lips, but nodded. "Fair enough. He's sleeping now. He had a nightmare earlier, but never actually woke from it. The house-elf was startled by his calling out and thrashing," she explained. "If he has another nightmare tonight and wakes, give him the sleeping draught I have in the cupboard above my desk." She pointed to the location. "Let me know if you have any problems, all right?"

She thanked Poppy for the tea and the shoulder, and headed for Severus' room. It was dark inside. Minerva only lit one lamp to give her enough room to maneuver in. She took a seat by his bed and put her hands over one of his newly healed hands, running her thumb over a thick ridge of scar tissue. She focused on his face, trying to reconcile the man who laid here with the one she had known (or had she really known him?) and the memories she had seen.

She had always known that he had done… things that others would find reprehensible. It was part of being a spy for Voldemort. For some reason, she had never really dwelled on what those things were. Perhaps she instinctively knew that she didn't want to know? Or did she have a good idea, and simply ignored it, like so many other things?

She turned her thoughts away from that, but found herself coming back to the question, what was true? Were those memories really indicative of his life? She hoped not, but knew she couldn't tell for certain.

But she could. The oneiromantic ritual bowl was still set up. It would only take a moment to empty out the old water, change it to fresh, clean water. She knew she could enter his mindscape if she truly wanted to. She could find out for herself what the truth was.

Before she knew it, she was adjusting the position of the bowl, charming the old water out, and filling it half full of clear and pure water. Seating herself before the bowl, she placed her hands on either side of it, intoned the ancient words and found herself inside his mindscape once again.

Wind whipped through the air, and Minerva was caught by the thought that there was never wind here. It wasn't cold, yet it chilled her as if little fingers plucked at her robes, her skin. Disconcerted, she tried to ignore it as best as she could, and realized that she had no real idea of what she was going to do. She debated whether she should visit Old Snape or Young Severus, both, or neither. For a moment, neither sounded like the best plan. Perhaps she should leave now, before she did something she would regret, but it wasn't in her to back down. _Stupid, brave Gryffindor,_ she thought. Severus had a habit of pointing out to her that Gryffindor didn't always mean brave. It just as frequently meant _brash, foolhardy, hot-headed, impetuous._ Right now, she felt all of those things, but the very memory of his words were enough to spur her on. Also _arrogant, egotistical._ Fine. She would go to Old Snape then. At least she would be in good company.

She traveled down the twisting river, but now she trudged along side it rather than float loftily above it. If she was going to know what Severus thought, his memories, she wouldn't spare herself anything. The water lapped at her feet, giving her sensations of fury, sorrow, guilt at each pass. Whether it was because of a latent desire to punish herself, or because of a perverse sense of justice, she enjoyed the pain, the pure agony of the dark, metallic water. By the time she came to the waterfall, she felt that she had bled out her own emotions, in much the same way the crying had exhausted her earlier..

Only now did she raise herself above the water to travel down the side of the cliff. She wasn't about to try climbing down, even at her most macabre.

"I didn't expect to see you back here so soon," Old Snape said in greeting. He was in the mud pit, wallowing. Minerva sat down on the edge hiking her robes up around her thighs and dangling her toes in the mud. Her feet were already stained with the water, turning them a frightening gray color. "Feeling penitent?" The words were crisp, the dental consonants reverberating against the wall of the cliff, over the dissonant waterfall.

"In a way." She fixed him with a measuring gaze. "Why did you show me that memory?"

He seemed taken aback. "I think it should be obvious."

"I think that nothing you have ever done has been obvious. Why did you show me that memory?"

He stared back at her, but Minerva wasn't about to be bullied by Old Snape. _Brave_, a voice whispered. _Foolish._

"Because you seem to have some fantasy that I am a good and kind man. I'm not. I have a pit full of memories that would prove otherwise."

"Do you really believe that?" She asked softly. A little eddy of frustration played against her toes in the mud.

"You sit here surrounded by the same memories, and you have to ask me that question?" he said, his voice disbelieving. "Look around you!"

In a flash of movement, he was suddenly at her side. He grabbed her arm, pulled her into the mud pit. She thrashed and flailed, but he seemed determined to hold her in the water, completely submerging her in the raw emotion and memory the mud was made from.

Small whirlpools erupted around her, each one with different memories. Death and murder, torture, abuse. Torrents of hatred, disaster, shame, dishonor ran over her, through her. Her lungs filled with loathing and resentment, and the harder she tried to fight against the emotions, the memories, the more they assaulted her senses. Finally, after fighting to no avail, she gave up, let the memories take her completely.

She saw Snape reporting to Voldemort, felt the Cruciatus Curse as if she had been struck down with it herself. She felt revulsion and grim satisfaction at the sight of a muggle residence burning to the ground. Dismay as Dumbledore told him that there was no other choice, he had to go back, and that the lives of a few muggles were nothing compared to the price Voldemort would demand should he be allowed to succeed. Voldemort's torture, his imprisonment. A thousand misdeeds and transgressions flowed through her body, and she felt each one as if she, herself, had done it. She hated herself for more than she could admit.

In time she realized that she was no longer in the mud pit. She laid on the bank, Old Snape hovering nearby. She coughed, but couldn't muster the strength to roll over to clear her lungs. To her surprise, Old Snape came to her side and gently helped her to sit. She coughed and vomited, watching in horror as the memories she expelled coalesced and slithered into the mud pit.

"Do you see?" he asked quietly.

Minerva nodded, but she had an inkling that what she saw was different than what he intended. Snape wasn't an unwitting victim in this, but neither was he entirely iniquitous. "I see," she answered.

With difficulty she got to her feet. "I've seen what I came to," she said.

Snape watched her warily. "Will you be returning?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied honestly. "There's still too much to consider."

He nodded. "Go then. Talk to the boy. I'm sure he will be more considerate than I am," he sneered the last, but Minerva didn't take notice. She merely left, floating above the water and returning to the copse of memory trees at the source of the river.

When she arrived, she gasped at what she saw. The trees had been divested of their leaves, stark white branches thrust into a red and black sky. They looked impossibly tall and thin, as if the wind that blew through could snap them at any moment. At the base of their trunks were great piles of silver leaves. In the midst of it all stood a young man.

Where Young Severus had been thin, this young man was now gaunt, grave lines ravaging his youthful face. His arms were wet to the elbows in hematite-colored water. Large swaths of leaf memories leaned up against the trunks of the trees, and he worked on another piece, standing on tiptoes to reach the top of a memory.

"Severus?" Minerva asked breathlessly.

The young man turned, black eyes boring into her. "Aren't you happy, Professor?" he sneered, and she was unpleasantly reminded of Old Snape. "This is what you wanted, wasn't it?"

She walked forward into the copse. This place that had once seemed a sanctuary was now as discordant and unpleasant as the rest of the mindscape. The wind whispered harshly through the trees and she could hear the river from here, cacophonous and grating.

"Is this what you wanted?" she asked, sadness welling in her heart. Had she done this? Was this really her doing?

"I wanted to be left alone. I could have been quite happy here, if you had just left me alone." His hands closed to fists at his side and his eyes squeezed shut. "Why didn't you just leave me alone?" he asked, but this time it wasn't angry, but sad, pitiful.

"Would you have truly been happy here with broken memories?" She went to him, put a hand on his shoulder.

He twisted away from her, shrugging out of her grasp. "I don't know," he said, his voice cracking with a sob.

Minerva hesitated before putting a hand to his shoulder again, but she could see no other alternative. "Severus, stop. Look at me."

Severus turned, tears making tracks down his cheeks.

"What Albus and I did was done with the best intentions. We saw a man we have come to love in pain, and we did what we thought was best." She bit her lower lip, damning herself for the pain she had wrought.

"The road to hell…" he muttered.

"I know. Merlin, I know that now. I would that there was something more I could do."

"Please leave me, Professor. I don't know what will happen, but don't come back. Don't let Headmaster Dumbledore come back, either."

Minerva nodded. That was fair. She released his shoulder and turned, but quickly looked back. "May I ask a question before I go?"

"What?" he spat at her.

No more than she deserved, she recognized. No more than she deserved.

"The girl – who is she?"

His face twisted into a smile. "I don't know yet. I won't let the water touch the memories. I don't want them to be sullied like everything else in my life. Will you go now?"

"Of course."

She left then, withdrawing from the mindscape entirely. She blinked in the dim room, looked to the man on the bed, whose eyes remained closed, his breathing even. She crossed the room to the bed, sat in the chair next to the bed. A small stack of books laid on the bedside table – potions, astronomy, charms.

"I'm sorry, Severus, for all that we have done to you," she whispered. She didn't dare lay a hand to him lest it rouse him. She didn't think she could handle that just now.

She sat alone in the room with her thoughts, and remained there until Poppy came to relieve her in the morning. With a heavy heart she left his room, went to her own. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she contemplated what had happened.

_The road to hell is paved with good intentions._

_

* * *

_

A/N: The next few chapters have been kicking my behind. Nineteen is with Beta right now, but we're currently angsting over it - it's been through three revisions, andneither ofus are really happy with it.Don't be surprised if it takes a week or so to get the damned thing up.

In other news, my brain is currently made of Goo. The reason for this is that there is a relatively small percentage of the population who can converse knowledgeably on the subject of epitaxial silicon growth patterns in semiconductor manufacturing, and despite my best efforts, I am becoming one of these people. I would like to point out that my primary course of study in school is Latin. Latin, people! Semiconductor can't even really be translated into Latin!


	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Severus clawed his way to wakefulness as memory after memory assaulted every sense – he saw people dying, frequently by his own hand, smelled their blood, felt their hearts give their last fluttering beats, heard their cries for mercy, to an end of all pain. Old stone buildings flattened, turned to nothing but mounds of rubble and the odd burning coal. A raid of a small town, a flat in London leveled for the Dark Lord's amusement.

Not all the memories were like that – in fact, some of them were pleasant, of bright summer days gathering potions ingredients just inside the Forbidden Forest, of the enticing smell of a woman who had just left his bed. Books he had read, poetry and music he had enjoyed. Dancing and fine wine, proper tea. Things that made him want to be away from this infernal prison of his own broken body. It was enough to give him a headache.

Upon jarring awake, he heard the sound of singing, and recognized Poppy's voice immediately. In fact, the bright melody was something he recognized vaguely, teasing at the edge of his memory. He looked for Poppy, but didn't see her, realizing that she was out in the infirmary proper. Moreover, the door to his room was open, and sunlight streamed in. He could smell fresh lavender, and as he inhaled deeply of it, he sneezed violently.

Poppy hurried in, her softly humming voice stilled. "Severus?" she asked worriedly, as she bustled to his side. She looked like she was going in to wipe his nose for him with a handkerchief produced from somewhere on her person. "Are you all right?"

He wiped at his nose impatiently, waving her away. "I'm fine, or I will be if you stop fussing for a moment." He didn't quite know where that surge of irritation came from, but he was embarrassed at the thought of her wiping his nose for him, and glared at her over his hooked proboscis. Despite the sneeze, his headache and his weakened body, he felt better now than he had in – entirely too long.

Poppy was not to be deterred by his manner, however, and in fact seemed to take heart from it. She helped him to sit and merely offered the cloth to him. He took it, though his hands shook terribly. He dabbed carefully at his nose as if he had only been laid up with a particularly bad cold.

"…out for a bit?"

Severus looked up sharply from his ministrations. The mediwitch had been speaking, but he had been concentrating on stilling his hands from their shaking, not listening to her.

"What?" he snapped.

"I thought that we might go out for a bit. The grounds are beautiful this time of year, and we haven't a single student summering here."

Her voice was softly placating, and as much as he wanted to rage and rail against her, he found that he could not bring himself to do it.

"Out?" he repeated. The idea of leaving this room was an attractive one. To be out of these four walls, to see something other than Poppy, Minerva and Albus. Perhaps being out of here would give him something else to think on, rather than be left with the assault of memories that were jangling in his head, reverberating around inside his skull.

"Yes, out. I think it might be good for you to get out of these walls for a little walk," she said, echoing his thoughts. "In fact, a proper bath wouldn't go amiss either, I think. Wait here – I'll draw a bath and have a house-elf fetch a dressing gown for you."

Severus would have protested his dignity, or even that he wasn't really capable of moving very far on his own, had Poppy not already swept out of the room. He had nothing to do but contemplate his immediate future. He decided, however, that if Poppy were to insist on his bathing (a prospect that, truth be known, did not entirely displease him), he would do his damnedest to meet her half way.

That in mind, and already sitting up in bed, he pushed himself forward on his weak arms. Pausing to take a deep breath, he pushed back the sheets and was dismayed by what he saw there. The muscles in his legs had atrophied from disuse, and more than that, long and deep scars ran their lengths. His knees were angular and bony, his feet as scarred as his hands, but they, like his hands, retained their proper shape. He grimaced at the sight, closed his eyes and resolutely pushed away the memories of the events that had brought him to where he was now.

Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, carefully maneuvering so his feet could touch the floor. The feel of the cool stones against his feet was – indescribable, really. His eyes closed, he sat rubbing his feet against the smooth stone, feeling the small cracks between two of the closely laid stones, and was so entranced by the sensation that he didn't hear Poppy as she bustled back into his room.

"Severus!"

He couldn't tell if Poppy was upset or pleased, but either way she was at least surprised. He felt a certain amount of warm satisfaction from knowing that he had done something that caused her even consternation. She recovered quickly, as she pressed her lips into a firm, disapproving line.

"I was going to levitate you into the tub," she said. Her voice was steady and carried a reproachful tone, only matched by her raised eyebrow. Then, her voice softened. "You'll only hurt yourself if you push too hard."

Severus frowned, closed his eyes. Another memory slithered to the forefront of his mind.

_He awoke in the Hospital Wing – again. Fifth time this year, and it was only November. He couldn't recall what had brought him here, and he was dismayed to discover that he had returned once again, but only for a moment. In a way, the Hospital Wing was becoming a sanctuary to him, a place where he went to recover from his injuries and ills. Madam Pomfrey bustled around the Infirmary, making notes on a scrap of parchment periodically. He was suddenly taken with a rough coughing fit, a side-effect of the hex that had been thrown at him earlier. Madam Pomfrey hurried to his side, held him up with strong arms while he voided his lungs. She smiled kindly at him, offered a handkerchief. He shook his head, refusing both the handkerchief and the offer of kindness._

"_I should be getting back to my common room," he said._

"_You shouldn't push yourself, Severus. You'll only hurt yourself if you do." She laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, gently pushed him back to the pillows…_

The rest of the memory was lost, although it didn't end with the feeling of being fractured that so many of the others had. This one simply trailed into nothingness, as if there was naught but time that caused the end of it.

Severus looked up at Poppy, his tone softening at her stern, but worried expression. "I'm fine, Poppy. But I'd just as soon not be carried to my bath like an invalid."

She looked like she would argue, but then nodded in agreement. "All right. It's not that far, and if you lean on me, we should make it just fine." As if this settled everything, she leaned over to put an arm around his thin waist, and half lifting him, she helped him to his feet. He swayed, the change of perspective making the room spin around him.

"All right?" Poppy asked after a moment when his swaying had stopped.

"Just dizzy," he said faintly. The room had stopped making its merry way around his head, and he steadied himself against Poppy's warm form.

"Come on, then. It's not far." Soft, encouraging. He could take his strength from her manner alone.

With her kind words, the pair made their way through the open door of the private ward, carefully placing one foot in front of another. It was the first time Severus had been out of it since he had been brought back to Hogwarts. He gasped at the sight of the high ceiling, the bright light streaming through the high windows. Beds lined the walls, partitioned by curtains. It was as he remembered it. Exactly as he remembered, and he took heart from seeing it as such.

Along one wall was a longer stretch of curtained partition, and it was there that Poppy guided him. Leaning heavily against her, he raised one trembling hand to part the curtain. Behind it was a clawed tub, filled with steaming water that smelled slightly of ginger. He inhaled deeply of its scent, wafting to his nostrils on the steam.

Poppy settled him in a high-backed wooden chair and puttered for a moment, doing mysterious things with her wand and pouring strange concoctions into the tub, changing the scents ever so slightly, and allowing the steam to dwindle until it was nearly gone. Ginger mixed with citrus, a spicier scent he didn't recognize. Poppy smiled encouragingly, motioned for him to lift his arms so she could lift the shirt off. He thought for a moment to protest, but for the moment could not. The scents overwhelmed him, suffusing his senses. For a moment he fancied that he could taste the strange citrus, and sagged back in his seat.

"Up we go," Poppy said, again guiding him to his feet. She then had him sit on the edge of the tub, lifting one leg into it, then the other, and finally gently pushing the rest of his torso into the warm liquid.

He laid back against the edge of the tub, relishing the sensation of the wet liquid washing over him. The effort of moving after his prolonged confinement had left him exhausted, and for the moment he was content to allow Poppy to do what she would with him. In all of his memories, she was nothing other than safe, completely and utterly. She had never done anything to harm him, never hurt him. He couldn't say the same for Albus and Minerva, and that realization made him nervous.

Poppy left him to his thoughts, and he let them freely roam, allowing the associations to go where they would. For now, the memories that came to him were pleasant, although they frequently had an undertone of regret or pain. He started regarding them as normal, as the way they should be, for there were few others that were more pleasant, or had no such associations at all.

Before he realized it, Poppy was speaking to him again, and he realized that he had not been paying attention to a word she'd said. For a moment, he focused on her lips, the shapes they made as she formed words that held no meaning. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he should have been listening to the words, not merely watching.

"I'm sorry, Poppy. My mind was wandering. What was that?"

She gave him an unreadable look, then smiled, though even he thought it looked forced. "You're all done here. If you'll help me, we'll get you loaded into the wheelchair, and go for that walk." She nodded to a corner of the curtained area, and for the first time he noticed the awful thing. It was a contraption for invalids.

Which he was. The thought of it stung, but he had to admit it was fitting. In fact, hadn't he applied that same word to himself not long ago? He couldn't make it across the room without his breath coming in heavy, short gasps, his limbs still shook when he attempted any activity more strenuous than turning pages in a book.

He sighed, then nodded. Vile, terrible contraption, he thought. High-backed and wicker, it was a relic from a bygone age, charmed, he supposed, to withstand the ages. He allowed Poppy to take him under the arms, didn't protest as she hauled him out of the tub, dried him off with a flick of her wand, and bound him snugly in the green dressing gown the house-elf had brought for him. He insisted on walking to the chair, leaning heavily on the mediwitch as he did so, and glared at Poppy as she fussed with it and him in it.

"It's fine," he finally snapped, then immediately questioned where that little splash of vitriol had come from. He labeled the emotion, set it aside, promising himself that he would investigate it further at a later point.

Poppy said nothing, merely tucked a blanket around his hips. She gave him a measuring look, then waved her wand in a complicated pattern. _"Incendo!"_ she said, and the chair moved obligingly forward with a small jolt, the wheels never touching the ground.

She led the way to a side entrance of the castle, one that opened out on a small herb garden of entirely medicinal plants. She opened the door, waving Severus' chair on ahead, and closing the door behind her. Bright sunlight beat down on them, and a sharp scent of lavender assaulted the sense of scent, then other herbs made their way into his vision. Bees hummed merrily, going about their business as if nothing had changed.

He was taken by how open the world seemed, the blue sky reaching out above him until he couldn't see it beyond the trees of the Forbidden Forest, which loomed menacingly in the distance. He knew instinctively that one direction lay the Quidditch pitch, the other the greenhouse. And it was beautiful.

They stayed as they were, in the midst of that tiny garden, the sun playing on their backs and bees and butterflies buzzing and flitting around them. Severus had no thoughts, didn't let any spoil his enjoyment of this moment.. For a time, it was a perfect, beautiful moment. Finally, he reached out a scarred hand, let it brush against a particularly large shrub of rosemary, upsetting the bees that had landed in it. They buzzed angrily for a moment, but subsided quickly, returning to their tasks.

"It's overwhelming, isn't it?" Poppy said softly.

Severus was caught between wanting to protest or agree. Afraid that if he agreed it was overwhelming, she would take him and that hateful chair back inside and he wouldn't have another chance to get out again. "No," he said, instead. "It's a perfect moment."

* * *

A/N: This was a very difficult chapter to write. There were four revisions and rewrites, until I finally arrived at this. The third revision was about twice as long, and I decided that I was trying to pack too much information into the chapter. The first two were simply too... I don't know... sappy, I think. After lengthy discussions with my beta, I finally decided on this one, and am now posting it before I start fiddling with it too much, or more than I have been. If you see any mistakes, let me know. I assure you, they are all mine. Huge thanks to my beta, who will remain nameless by her own request; XiaoGui who was a major inspiration for this (If you haven'tread 'The Final Atonement', you really should); Cecelle for being extremely spiffy; and Verity Brown for writing fantastic angst. Go read their fics if you haven't.Go! 


	21. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

The Astronomy Tower looked very different during the day. Large stacked gray stones had been carefully positioned together to create the crenellations behind which countless students had hidden in a desperate attempt to evade the notice of their astronomy instructors. Growing out of the cracks between the stones were the odd bits of ivy, or other weeds that tenaciously clung to the stones, struggling to keep their roots grounded on their precarious structure. During the Final Battle, a sizeable chunk had been taken out of the tower's foundation, but during the initial rebuild, it was one of the first things to be shored up, to once again stand the test of ages.

In the middle of the tower floor, a table had once again been set up for the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress, with two chairs sitting across from each other. Tea was set out, plates of biscuits and other sweets were arrayed across it. Steam merrily streamed forth from the spout of the pot, though the two who sat, ostensibly to have afternoon tea hadn't touched it nor the dainties.

Albus and Minerva eyed each other warily from across the table. Neither had spoken since arriving to the tower, and for that matter, they had barely spoken since their harsh words were last excahnged atop the astronomy tower. Now they had returned again, and Minerva wasn't certain why she had requested to meet here. Even the bright light of day brought up her own darker memories that she didn't want to think about again – or perhaps it was the light that brought them back into focus. She felt a cold spot in the pit of her stomach. _Stupid, Minerva,_ she thought. _This may not have been one of your better plans. Brave, but stupid._

Albus cleared his throat, and Minerva realized that she had been woolgathering again. It was becoming a habit, and now that she had the luxury of being able to do so, she worried that it would start taking over her life.

"I complied with your request not to return to Severus' mindscape," Albus said into the silence.

Minerva winced at the words, wondering if he had intended them to sound so harsh.

"Thank you," she replied softly. She hadn't even spoken with him regarding it, simply sent a house-elf with a hastily penned note. She felt guilty about it. Perhaps that was the reason for the choice of venue - to assuage her own guilt? So much for Gryffindor bravery.

"Severus is doing better," Albus offered soberly. "I looked in on him before coming." An explanation, an olive branch proffered.

Recognizing the gambit for what it was, Minerva took it. "Poppy told me he walked to the library and back yesterday."

"Likewise. It seems that a week without our…" Albus trailed off, searching for the right word. In the decades that Minerva had known him, she could count the number of times he had been at a loss of words on one hand. She patiently waited for him to go on rather than offer other suggestions. _Interference_ was the one that sprang to mind first. _Meddling_

and _officious prying _also presented themselves as options.

"Efforts," he continued, "has done well for him. He and Poppy have made a lot of progress."

Minerva was forced to agree on that part. The day after her own 'efforts', Poppy had taken Severus for a walk in the gardens. Over the interceding week, he had pushed himself and Poppy to the edge of their respective limits to once again become mobile. It was as if all he had needed was a little push to discover that his body was a useful tool rather than a prison, and he would use it to the best of its ability. Last week he could barely sit up by himself. This week, he would have wandered all over the castle and its grounds, leaning on his cane the entire way, had Poppy allowed it.

"I think Severus is eager to put this chapter of his life behind him," Minerva said carefully.

He looked at her oddly, cocking his head to one side, looking for all the world like a curious little bird. "Have any insights that you would care to share?"

She had the feeling that Dumbledore knew more than he was letting on, though how much more she wasn't certain. She thought of ways to dance around the subject, how to skirt past it without ever really touching on it, and suddenly, she was very tired of this thing that was so close to deception as to be largely indistinguishable. How had she gotten to this point with a man whom she had trusted for a good portion of her life?

Sighing, she picked up the teapot, poured for both of them. "I think we've both been doing ourselves and Severus something of a disservice with the best of all possible intentions."

Albus waited for her to go on, saying nothing, only sipping at his tea.

"I entered his mindscape again after… well, afterwards. I talked to Old Snape, then went to Young Severus. We- I," she amended, "triggered a floodgate that I don't think we intended to. Young Severus took matters into his own hands, started piecing together his own memories."

"That is something that we intended all along, wasn't it?"

Minerva was surprised that he didn't mention her own deception, that there was no lecture regarding her actions, but she wasn't about to let go of her tack. "At the detriment of Young Severus? He's aged with the emotions and the memories, Albus! To see him like that was terrible."

Albus smoothed his beard, brushed the crumbs of his biscuit from it. "Perhaps. But Severus Snape was not a nice man, Minerva. He was capable of a great deal of evil, and even I know that if he'd had the chance, if it was clear to him the Voldemort would win the battle, exactly where his loyalties would have laid." His tone was gentle, but even Minerva could hear a thin line of bitterness through the words.

"But for all that, when it came down to it, he was still one of my children and he came back to me, despite that I was the one who sent him to the worst of the tortures he experienced. Honestly, is it any wonder that Young Severus bears the mark of his sins, now that he's been given the opportunity to see them?"

Minerva frowned. She was irritated with Albus for being so cavalier with Severus' mind, and more irritated with herself for not seeing what should have been obvious. And it was – blindingly, painfully obvious. This was what they had wanted - or rather, it was one of a number of possibilities. And it made her wonder – what had _she_ wanted? Had she really been so naïve as to think she could fix Severus?

It was an excellent question, and certainly one that bore more thinking about. What had she wanted? There were a number of possibilities. What was it that made her agree to this mad scheme in the first place? She had first argued against entering his mind, thinking of the ethics of it, then, when showed the possibilities, hadn't she encouraged the sessions? She had enjoyed her visits into his head, found a bit of sick, voyeuristic satisfaction in seeing his memories, piecing them back together again. And all for what?

She thought of her stated altruistic motives, and realized that those were shams covering – what, exactly? A desire to be needed? Perhaps. Why had she insisted on helping in the first place? There was little she could do that Albus couldn't have done, and generally with more finesse than her typical method of taking the straight forward route through any problem.

"Minerva?" Albus said, his eyebrows high and worried.

She realized that she had been woolgathering again, and this time the topic was anything but benign. "I'm sorry, Albus. I'm just thinking about what you've said."

He nodded, and she knew that he was aware of the truth, but would be content to let her sit and contemplate her navel for as long as it took.

So again. She reviewed their conversations in her mind, their last argument, this current talk. She had been angry, outraged, and realized that it wasn't for Severus that she had been upset. It was for herself. She had been living in a fantasy if she honestly thought that Severus was completely inculpable for his actions, and moreover that she would have been able to take the moral high ground.

"Do you regret the things you did in the War?" Minerva asked abruptly.

Albus' lips thinned under the beard, and there was a long pause before he answered. "There isn't a day that goes by that I don't."

Guilt suffused through Minerva again. That was it. Until now, she had felt justified in everything she had done. It was a war, people died. It wasn't until now, when she saw the direct results of her actions or inaction, that she understood. Faced with the consequences of her own actions, she was taken by how terribly easy it was to understand the enemy, and how close they had come to losing everything.


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Severus had heard Albus coming down the hall and pausing at the door to the library long before he had actually appeared at the table where Severus had ensconced himself. He made a show of not noticing anyone, pleased with his own minor deceptions. He poured over several large tomes which were spread out in front of him. A frown creased his brow as he flipped back and forth between two pages of the book directly in front of him, then he hastily consulted another one. He dipped his quill in an ink pot, scrawled a note on a scrap of parchment, and exchanged the book in front of him for a third one. Although his notes were important, that he was able to keep his mind on two things at once was thrilling.

In fact, there were many things thrilling about his latest library excursion. He was dressed in sober black robes, cleanly shaven, and feeling quite a bit healthier than he had in some time. He had finally requested a mirror to examine the effects of his recent attempts at shaving, and was startled to discover that he looked better than he had feared, but worse than he had hoped. There just wasn't anything one could do when he had been given such an unfortunate face in the first place. The long slash across his eyelids was a drop in the bucket compared to his (still) awful hooked nose, the evidence of a hundred schoolyard brawls and Dark Lord's summons indelibly marked into it. His lips were still thin and prone to frowning, and his hair was streaked with gray from the temples. On another man, it might have been "distinguished." His honest appraisal was more than he just looked old.

For that matter, while he still leaned on a cane for his mobility, he was mobile, and the ability to rise, bathe and dress himself in the morning had given him more impetus to make his way into the world – or at least the world outside the Hospital Wing – than any kind words Poppy had said to him, or the brash advice of Minerva. Within days of being given a cane and the go-ahead to begin using it, Severus had obediently downed strengthening draughts and made morning walks to the library and back, each day spending more time in the library than the last.

Albus cleared his throat, waiting for Severus to acknowledge him. The younger man didn't look up from his books, but said crisply, "Poppy suggested I might find some more information than she was readily able to give me about my – 'condition', as she so charmingly put it, here."

Severus noticed that Albus hesitated before sitting, and allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.

"May I sit?" he finally asked as he moved a pile of scrolls from a chair and made himself comfortable.

Severus looked up briefly and snorted, promptly returning to parchment in front of him, making another note on the parchment in front of him. Albus eyed the titles of the books and scrolls he had arrayed over the table._ Magical Drafts and Potions. Moste Potente Potions. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. Less Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. Exceedingly Uncommon Magical Ailments and Afflictions. The Dream Oracle. Theories in Oneiromancy. _

"Doing some homework?" Albus asked, as he reached for _The Dream Oracle_.

Severus frowned at him, tore off a piece of parchment from the scrap he was working on, and leaned over to wedge it between the open pages. It was the beginning of a chapter on entering waking dreams, and had suggestions for potions that might aid or ease the process. "Don't lose my page."

"Learning anything interesting?"

"Only that it seems to be impossible for anyone to leave me alone for more than an hour at a time." The line was delivered without rancor and Severus leveled an unreadable gaze at him, as though expecting him to refute it.

Albus only chuckled. "I'm not the first to come after you this afternoon?"

"No, and it's damnably irritating. It's as if you all know right when I manage to forget that I've been ill for a few minutes, or when I find myself completely wrapped up in something that you come to make sure I haven't forgotten that I've been terribly, grievously ill." He was paraphrasing Poppy, and knew it. "I'm fine," thin lips twisted wryly. "Or I would be if you could stop fussing for a bit."

Albus snorted. "Meddling sorts, aren't we?" he said cheerfully. "Would you like me to leave so you can get back to your work?"

Severus opened his mouth, then closed it, considering his response. "No," he said finally, running scarred hands through his hair. "I'm at a good stopping point for the afternoon anyway." He made one last note with his quill, then carefully marked the pages he was working on, closing the books and pushing them aside. "Is there something I can do for you, Albus?"

"Mostly I wanted to check in on you, see how you've been…" he trailed off, searching for a word. He tugged at his beard absently.

"Coping?" the younger wizard suggested wryly. He folded his hands in front of him on the table, interlacing the scarred fingers.

Albus frowned, but inclined his head. "I was hoping to find a kinder word."

"You needn't bother," Severus said shortly. "As for the question, I'm – well, I'm not well, exactly, but I'm better than I have been."

"Your memories?" he asked. It wasn't needful to elaborate; they both knew of what he spoke.

Severus leaned back in his seat, face impassive as he studied Albus as if for the first time. He remembered the man being old when he had first come to Hogwarts, and that was something of a victory in and of itself. Now, the white bearded wizard seemed positively ancient, and he wondered how much longer Albus would live. Even for such a long-lived people, he could be considered venerable. He wondered why Albus hadn't yet retired, then the answer came to him, swirling in front of his eyes out of a mental fog he didn't realize was there until now. _He's staying on for you._

The realization made him feel guilty, the emotion snaking through his body, worming its way into the recesses of his mind, and constricting his heart in his chest. He owed Albus everything – his life several times over, and now his relative sanity. He recognized this, hated it. He had been indebted to this man too many times over, and now he was in his debt again. He knew that if the time came, he likely would not be able to deny Albus anything he asked.

He pushed the thoughts away, turned his mind to the question Albus had asked of him. Poppy, Minerva, and even Albus saw his wandering mind as a sign of his instability, which rankled some. He recognized the tendency in himself to let his mind wander where it would, but that others also saw it was troublesome. In his mind, he saw himself once as being an impenetrable fortress. Now, his thoughts and memories sprawled where they would, a farmhouse long in disrepair, of little use to anyone.

"Some are clearer than others," he said at last, and pressed his lips into a thin, firm line. He eyed Albus, whose silence prompted him to speak more. "I'm finding that reading helps to jog the memory." He realized as he said it that he had fallen for a trick he himself had employed to good effect in another time and place.

"Do you feel that you are making much progress?"

Such a simple question with anything but simple connotations or answers. "In terms of?"

Albus smiled, and Severus recognized it as being one of satisfaction. "Anything at all."

_I'm being tested._ Severus had no intention of failing any such test, although his reasons weren't clear, even to him. "Physically, I am much improved."

There was a lengthy and pregnant pause while the two men looked at each other from across the table. Finally, Albus broke the silence first, and Severus felt a thrill of victory. "And?" he prompted.

"I feel that much of my knowledge regarding potions is simply a matter of reminding myself that I have it." He nodded towards the books, then allowed himself to elaborate. "There's still much that is locked away, where I can't reach it, but it isn't regarding my potions lore. It's –" Here he paused again, wondering how much to reveal, how much to share. He shook himself, then._ Ridiculous, _he thought. _It isn't as if he doesn't already know as much, if not more, than I do._

But even that was unsettling, if he allowed himself to dwell on it. A much better solution was to not allow himself that opportunity. He forged ahead, although choosing his words carefully. "Some of it is personal, some regarding family. Some is about–" another pause. "My time with – Voldemort." It was one thing to refer to the Dark Lord by his name in your head. He recalled cursing and swearing at Voldemort, the prerogative of a prisoner to damn the jailor by whatever means he deemed appropriate. In the light of day, when at times it didn't seem possible that he truly was dead, habits that had been ingrained into his very being were hard to break.

Albus nodded, looked as if he were about to reach across the table to pat thin hands, fingers still interlaced and folded on the table, but then thought better of it. Sitting back, mirroring Severus' own position, he folded his hands in front of himself. "The start of term is approaching quickly."

Severus swallowed hard, felt his pulse quicken. He hoped Albus wouldn't ask him that, prayed fervently for anything but that. It was too soon, he was still ill. He couldn't study more than a few hours at a time without becoming so tired he could barely think straight. How could he hope to teach children – children who were no doubt aware of his allegiances, his actions in the war?

Albus continued on, as if blithely unaware of his words' effect on Severus. "I've hired a new potions master for a year contract – you may decide after the end of next term if you would prefer to remain retired from teaching, or if you would like to take up your old teaching post. I think it's best for the time being that you spend some time to take care of yourself."

Abruptly, Severus felt light-headed. He was being given a choice. A choice in his life. What he would like, what he would prefer. Brilliant. A choice.

He barely heard Albus, but paused in his euphoric mental meanderings when it became obvious that he was still speaking. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Albus smiled kindly. "I was just asking if you would be amenable to restocking Poppy's potions stores. I can open up the dungeons to let you start as soon as you want to."

Severus clutched the side of the table, despite the fact that he was still sitting. Brewing Poppy's simple potions seemed a small price to pay. There had to be a catch, something he was missing, but for right now, life was as perfect as it could be. He could do some of his own experiments, engage himself in a pursuit he thought he enjoyed.

"Absolutely," he said instead, forcing himself back to the present. "Whenever it is convenient for you to do so, I shall be happy to oblige."

* * *

A/N: Another difficult chapter to write. The first draft started off with Albus' POV, but I got about 700 words into it, and couldn't continue. POV abruptly shifted to Severus, and I managed to finish it out. Second draft, I shifted the POV entirely to Severus. It worked much better, although there are still things that I want to change about it. I'm forcing myself to post it now before I fiddle too much with it. 


	23. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Minerva was tired.

To be fair, they were all tired, and only getting more so with each passing day. Albus had started looking truly old as opposed to simply being agelessly stuck at one hundred and twenty. Poppy was somehow battling on in the way that any war-weary veteran did – simply taking the days one at a time, ever pressing onward. And Severus - to be honest, Severus was really the hardest to judge. If Minerva had known him less well, she might be tempted to say that he had been cured as much as anyone was able. To all appearances, he certainly seemed that way. Although his movements were less sure and his meanderings around the castle were aided by leaning heavily on a cane of Poppy's production, his wits seemed to be much more ordered than they were when Albus had the Ministry Aurors bring him back to Hogwarts, Minerva couldn't help the feeling that something was still terribly, profoundly wrong.

It was a subject of great debate at present. Poppy was of the opinion that what Severus needed more than anything was a return to normalcy. Albus and Minerva knew that there was more that could be done, had to be done before he would be 'cured'. He was functional, yes, but rehabilitated? Hardly.

She wasn't at all certain that she would still have those feelings if she hadn't seen the inside of his head. Was it only the knowledge of the shattered memories that caused her general upset? Every time she thought about it, she saw the fractured memory leaves in her mind, the satisfying feel of the broken memories finding their missing pieces coming back together. It was enough to almost want to return to the mindscape – Almost. The angry Young Severus and his jealous guarding of the memories of the red haired girl from the river mud was, by turns, chilling and frightening, and definitely not something that she wanted to encounter again.

Those thoughts aside, they were not the reason why she now wearily made her way into the dungeons, or at least they were only peripherally the reason. Minerva's pale, slim fingers touched the damp stone along the stairwells, running over the rough-hewn stonework and the occasional smoother patch from thousands of students having rubbed against the stairwell walls. She devoutly hoped that stone would be the only thing that her fingers passed over; tales of venomous creatures and poisonous deep-dwelling plants were only slightly exaggerated. She was filled with relief when she reached the bottom stair, breathing a sigh she didn't realize she was holding.

Taking a deep breath, she sniffed the air, trying to decide which direction Severus lay, then discovered that sniffing the air was unnecessary. The faint sound of swearing could be heard down the left corridor, making the decision of which direction to go for her.

The door to the laboratory was partially open, and yellow smoke was wafting out. She knocked gently, and ignored the answering snarl, instead pushing open the door as if she hadn't heard it at all.

"Mind if I join you?" Minerva asked as she entered.

Severus was standing at a workbench, his robes cast aside for the moment, his linen shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He focused his attention entirely on the cauldron in front of him and growled his answer: "Does anyone actually care if I do or not?"

Minerva mulled over the question as she pulled up a stool near his bench. "Albus doesn't, but will make you think he does, all the while stuffing lemon drops down your throat. Poppy cares very deeply, but is perfectly happy to ignore your opinion on the subject if she thinks you'll be benefited by her intrusion."

Severus snorted and frowned. "Damn and blast. That's another one ruined." He set the cauldron aside and for the first time, Minerva noticed a pile of cauldrons on another workbench, all showing signs of ruination – potions gone thick and solid, lumpy ones, things in colors not meant to be viewed by human eyes.

"Wouldn't it be easier to clean them as you go?" she asked, nodding to the pile.

"Perhaps, but tell me, Minerva – have you seen my wand lately?" Severus said without rancor.

Minerva drew in a deep breath and blushed furiously, realizing what he meant.

He continued as if he had seen nothing: "The house-elves have been cleaning up the messes."

"At least let me help you with these. Surely Albus knows you are currently without a wand?"

"He does, and in theory it is being rectified as we speak. However, until said wand appears, and I have it physically in hand, there is very little I can do about cleaning up my messes."

Minerva had an uncomfortable feeling that he was talking about more than just the ruined potions.

"And you haven't finished answering my question."

She realized guiltily that she had very neatly dodged answering Severus' original query. She thought to play dumb for a moment, but there was no point, really. He wouldn't believe her and she would lose further credibility.

"It's complex," she started.

"Then explain it to me." All pretense of starting a new cauldron was gone. He leaned against the high workbench, folding his arms neatly across his chest. Minerva had the uncomfortable feeling of being an insect pinned to a board, or possibly one of his students. And from the look he gave her, he would have been happy to make the fate of his students – and her - the same as that of the insect.

She took a deep breath. She would not be bullied, but he was right. He deserved an answer that was not patronizing in tone or deed.

"Well?" Severus said irritably. "And I would prefer that you not give me some rot about only having my best interests at heart."

Minerva couldn't help it – the corners of her mouth turned up, and she snorted in what might have been a chuckle. "That would be the easy route, wouldn't it? I wish everything was so simple as that. But no, I think we are all being selfish, with the possible exception of Poppy, although I wouldn't necessarily guarantee that, either."

"Then why are you here, Minerva?" Black eyes bored into hers, and she was the first to look away.

"Guilt, perhaps. No, there's really no 'perhaps' about it. We've – I've done a great deal of harm to you without realizing it. Or rather, I didn't realize it until Albus brought you back here after-" she bit off the end of the sentence.

"After?" he prodded her. Minerva noticed, though, that the knuckles clutching the sides of his arms were turning white.

"After you were found," she finished lamely.

"I see."

"No, I don't think that you do. What was done to you was unconscionable, and that we left you to that fate was worse. We should have found a way, could have found a way, but we didn't. Albus told me that you had gone missing, and the only thing I could think of at the time was who would fill your teaching post." She took another deep breath, one that was meant to be steadying, but instead she nearly choked on it. "I told Albus not to pursue you, that you were likely dead."

His face was gray, and he held the side of the workbench to keep from swaying on his feet. "I told you, I remember telling you, that the Dark Lord didn't kill traitors. I know I told you. I have the memories. I know I have the memories, they're inside here!" His voice was a low hiss, strangled and awful. Scarred fingers raised to his head, poking roughly at his temples.

She hopped off her perch on the stool, to go to his side, but he pushed at her weakly, staggering away from her. "Go away, Minerva. Go away. Go away go away go away."

He collapsed to his knees, sobbing, wrapping long arms around his body.

Minerva heard her own voice giving way to a choked sob, and ran from the dungeon laboratory, finding Albus standing by the doorway.

"Did it work?" Albus asked mildly, blue eyes sad and weary.

"Yes, damn you. It worked. And I'm done. I don't want anything more to do with this."

Albus nodded. "I understand. Can you do me the favor of calling Poppy, though, on your way out?"

For all she could tell, he was only making unintelligible noises. She looked at him blankly, trying to make sense of what he said. Finally, the words made sense and she nodded slowly.

"Thank you, Minerva." He caught her hand in his as she tried to sweep past. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

She pulled away from him, sick to the heart. A strangled moan came from the potions laboratory she had just vacated, causing a sharp stab of pain andguilt to her gut, a hot knife slicing into her side.

"I'm done," she repeated, as much to herself as to Albus. She made her way up the stairs, not looking back, terrified to look back. Her fingers traced the path up the stairwell walls and through the corridors of Hogwarts. She didn't breathe easy again until she burst into the light of the midday sun, radiating its warmth on Hogwarts.

* * *

A/N: Hoo-boy. This chapter disappeared from my computer. Poof, gone. It took me a little bit of time to generate enough oomph to rewrite it. In my opinion, this could use some extensive reworking, but for right now it is readable. When this is all through and done, I'll be reposting this entire story from start to finish. 


	24. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Severus woke with a start. For a long, confused moment he couldn't tell where he was, the shreds of a dream still clinging to his mind. He had been in a dungeon, Voldemort's dungeon, then making potions. Minerva had come to him, told him that he had been left to die… No, that wasn't part of the dream at all. Minerva's voice, her presence had been real, and the transition from his dream to the waking world made it painful to bear.

He was back in the infirmary, but he wasn't sure how he had gotten there. The private room was dark, lit only by a single, low-burning candle; it was impossible to tell how long he had been unconscious. Someone, Poppy most likely, had undressed him, put him to bed. His robes, trousers and shirt had all been carefully folded and set aside on a chair, his cane leaning against the chair within easy reach.

An old part of him was ashamed and angry for his weakness, that someone had to clean up after him, look after him as if he was a child. But a new part, one he did not recognize from his old life (a life that came back to him in bits and pieces) accepted the weakness and the simple kindness for what he supposed it was.

There was a certain blissful calm in the acceptance; he could accept that his eyes were still sore from crying, there were bruises on his knees from hitting a stone floor. He accepted that he was still too weak to get very far without the aid of a cane, and that his life was now his own to do with it as he pleased now that Voldemort was dead and gone.

That last was a heady thought. Voldemort dead, vanquished even, although his lips twisted in a ghost of a smile at the phrase. He wondered if the Boy-Who-Lived continued to do so, then realized that it didn't matter. Not to him, and possibly not ever. The activities of Potter and his two little friends were no longer of any concern to Severus; that, quite possibly, was an even more liberating thought.

Severus levered himself up to a sitting position, swung his legs over the side of the bed. Leaning his elbows on his bare knees, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then stretched his arms high over his head. Joints cracked and popped cathartically.

He was starting to remember pieces of what had happened before he awoke back in the infirmary. The dungeon had been real enough, although it was a dungeon he knew as well as home, for home it was, in a sense. It's dark, stone walls were comforting, and the odors of his potions were more real to him than many of his memories. Camphor, dragon's blood, acacia, wormwood. Minerva's voice, clipped and angry, but he couldn't make out the words.

Without stopping to think why he did so, Severus started the laborious process of getting dressed. Trousers and shirt, narrow scarred feet slipped into his shoes. When he finally added the robes, the heavy wool against his slight frame reminded him of a childhood not worth remembering, a tiny, underfed boy with an unfortunate nose and large dark eyes angrily viewed the world through a mop of greasy black hair. A red haired girl with shocking blue eyes and a friendly smile offered him a warm hand and a sweet biscuit. When an older boy with white-blond hair and a cruel smile grabbed a young Severus by the hand and pulled him away from her, a heavy coat was laid across his shoulders, smelling of sweet things and her.

An argument with the white-blond boy yelling, his usual mask of calm indifference laid aside to reveal a mad beast, features distorted by anger. _Lucius_, the name came to Severus unbidden. The red haired girl stood facing Lucius, and Severus realized that the two must have been of an age.

A different girl, now, the same red hair, but green eyes and softer features. She stood in roughly the same position the other one had, but this time with a black haired boy whose face and posture were unrepentant.

Severus swayed and caught himself with an outstretched hand on the back of the chair next to the bed. With one hand he closed the clasps on the robe, and with the other he took his cane with a scowl of distaste. He couldn't live like this, couldn't continue living with his mind shoving memories at him with no recourse but to submit to them. He was, or at least would be, the master of his own mind and body, even if they didn't necessarily agree with him on that point.

Shaking, Severus left the infirmary, the moonlight streaming through the high windows, illuminating the wide ward in a pale glow. He crept past Poppy's quiet office, scarcely daring to breathe until he had silently closed the great doors to the infirmary itself behind him.

To go to the library was his first task, and simple enough. Few were awake this time of night, and almost no one would be frequenting the library. The summer was a convenient time to be ill, he mused with a sour twist of his lips as he pushed the door open.

As he entered, the smell of books overwhelmed him; he looked around, and saw blood everywhere, the library in shambles. Stacks of books were overturned, and pages had been torn out and stuffed into the mouths those who had been reading them. Shelves had been pushed over, spilling their contents, while dark cloaked figures danced around with white masks, cackling gleefully at the havoc they caused.

Severus blinked, and he was alone in a pristine library, untouched by the hands of Death Eaters, except his own. He took a deep breath, then a second. All in his mind, he reminded himself, but that was not a pleasant thought to contemplate. He shivered despite the summer heat and the dark, heavy robes which bore too much resemblance to those he wore as a part of the Dark Lord's army.

The book he wanted was easy to find, and his time in the library was limited to only a few, brief moments. He hurried out with the book under his arm and headed to the dungeons where, he thought with irony, he would actually feel safe.

When he arrived in the dungeon laboratory he preferred, his first thought was that the house-elves had been dreadfully lazy, and had not cleared away the pile of cauldrons he had created earlier. He sighed, went to his workbench after lighting the lamps and perched on the edge of the stool, to examine the book he brought. He stopped short at the long wooden box that rested where he intended to put his book.

Setting the book aside for the moment, he examined the box without touching it, then picked it up cautiously. A small scrap of parchment fell from the bottom, which Severus read carefully.

_S._

_It is my devout hope that this will aid you in all your endeavors, now and ever._

_A.D._

Half expecting the box to explode, Severus opened the top carefully. Laying inside in a nest of paper straw was a wand. In script that he recognized as Ollivander's was a note: _Ebony, dragon heartstring core, 12 1/4 inches._

Severus remembered his first wand, twin to this one. His mother held his hand tightly in Diagon Alley, quickly taking him through shops and past people whom he imagined stared at his shabby clothes. His mother had seemed agitated and nervous, but let Ollivander take his time as she had not allowed other shopkeepers to do. Measurements were taken, and mutterings over Severus' head were frequent. Finally, Ollivander presented him with a beautiful wand, long and slender. It was easily the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he could hardly believe it was his.

In the dungeon, slowly, reverently, Severus lifted the wand out of the box, and gave it an experimental flick and breathed, _"Lumos."_ Obediently, the tip glowed brightly and he let out a sigh of relief. He turned to his cauldron pile, and set to work cleaning them. After a few false starts, he was soon rewarded with a newer, much cleaner pile of cauldrons.

Taking one from the top, he lit a fire underneath it and began working carefully, following the instructions in the book from the library. In this, at least, he was sure of himself, crushing billywig stings with the side of his knife and chopping the remains until they were reduced to a coarse powder. Beatles were sliced with mathematical precision, and wormwood cut into perfectly even strips. Shrieking mushrooms were silenced with a steady thump of a small silver hammer, and the ingredients were added carefully, one by one, into the cauldron.

Reading on, Severus followed the instructions: stir three times clockwise, four times counter-clockwise, tap the cauldron twice on the rim. Set spoon aside, simmer for twenty two minutes. Decant into crystal receptacle and imbibe immediately.

Before drinking the foul smelling brew, Severus wrote a quick note to Albus on the back of the parchment sent to him with the box. He then swallowed the potion in a single, swift gulp. He felt lighter for a moment, as if he were levitating off the floor, then the dungeon spun around him sickeningly, and his sight narrowed to a single point of light before disappearing altogether.

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A/N: Eeeevil cliffie. Sorry about the delay in update. Work got super-crazy-busy. Also, this is unbeta'ed due to a loss of beta, however a much cleaner (as in beta'ed) version of this story is available on Occlumency, and being updated regularly. I think I'm up to chapter 16 over there. Once this is done, I'll be reposting the cleaned-upversion here, although I think I'm primarily using FFN as my testing zone for fanfic. Does that make me a bad person? 


	25. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

The sickening sensation of falling, of his stomach lurching up to his throat and his heart lodging somewhere around his ankles ended with a crunch, a frisson of pain in his knees and jarring his bony hips. He pitched forward onto his hands, into something that had the consistency of a pile of autumn leaves and the smell of old blood.

For a moment, Severus was content to remain still, but soon the noise of something moving through leaves made him open his eyes and lift his head. He found himself looking into a mirror, if the mirror had shown him as he had been twenty years ago, down to the worn robes and hollow eyes.

The young man crouching in front of him looked just as startled as he felt, and they both scrambled backwards until Severus was on his back, his shoulders held up by his elbows and he viewed the young man through the V of his legs. The young man, for his part, stared, then, as if he suddenly remembered himself, sneered.

"What do you want, old man?"

Severus nearly sputtered. _Old man?_ Old _man? How dare he? Of all the insolence!_ He levered himself upright, dusting himself off, but silver mud clung to his clothes and he looked about him.

He was in a copse of trees, white barked and silver. The sky was red and black, unlike anything seen in nature, crazy geometric patterns that made the eyes look away, anywhere but there. A slim river of quicksilver and someone who was barely more than a child glowering at him were all that could be seen. The rest of the landscape was barren, desolate, and looked almost like pieces of a theatrical set. If one spent too much time studying the landscape, he had the alarming sensation that he'd be able to see the wires and pulleys, perhaps a well-meaning wizard with wand in hand just offstage directing the sequence of scene changes.

Severus couldn't help himself; he laughed at the absurdity of it. This was the inside of his tortured, troubled mind? This was where his memories were locked away, hidden and guarded by a gangly youth who had just started to charm his whiskers off his cheeks?

The young man's sneer never left, but Severus found the entirety of it preposterous. He studied his younger self, limping to one side to study the image's left side, then back around to the right, half in wonder, half in flabbergasted astonishment.

"Merlin. No wonder no one ever gave me the time of day. Did I make that face at everyone?"

It was the young man's turn to sputter. He stooped and came up with a handful of silver leaves, flung them at Severus's face. Snape attempted to dodge, but even in his own mind, he wasn't nearly as fast as his younger self. He staggered backward, eyes and nose covered in the memory of a girl who wasn't Lily Evans.

_His home was an awful place, dank even in the summer, and freezing in the winter. He watched the world from a dirty window, children who played with one another and ignored him entirely._

_He told himself, as his mother told him, that he was better off here, inside, where it was safe. Where he was surrounded by books on all sides, where learning was more important, infinitely more important than play. Someday, he would be a great man. Someday, none of this would matter…_

_But in the way of these things, 'someday' was a long way off and at the moment, ducking outside to run seemed more important than almost anything else he could think of._

_His mother couldn't watch him always, nor could any of her strange, terrifying relatives. A father not to be seen, a family that barely warranted the name were not to be had. A young Severus could, occasionally, slip out the side door and no one would be the wiser._

_Not often, no. When he did, a girl would be waiting for him, with red hair that curled around her face and brilliant blue eyes that laughed. Her name… he couldn't recall it. But she would grab his hand and pull him into a game that the neighbor children played. When he was with her, they didn't dare call him names or they would be skewered on her sharp tongue. When he was with her, it didn't matter that he was an awkward boy, all long limbs and a nose too large for his face, who couldn't remember the rules of the games they played. She talked him through the games, amused more than puzzled by his ignorance. When she laughed, she encouraged him to laugh with her._

Severus wiped the memory from his face, blinking in the red light of his mindscape. His younger self glared at him, readied another volley of leaves. Abruptly, the humor left Severus.

"What do you hope to accomplish?" he called, schooling his voice to a crispness he did not in the least feel. "They're my memories."

"You created them. You killed and murdered," the young man shouted. "You never knew what you had!"

On that point, Severus had to agree. When he was young, he'd had no idea. "True enough," he muttered. He'd wanted esteem and power. Eventually he had both, but not in the way he wanted them. A hundred fairy tales with morals like, "Be careful of what you wish," clattered through his mind. He shook his head.

The young man took a step forward. "Do you want these?" the young man called, brandishing a fistful of leaves. Severus studied the young man's unscarred hands and looked down at his own, brutalized though they had been. Suddenly, he wondered. Did he?

The memories he had were terrifying. He was not a nice man, rarely ever even a good one. Could he stand to know all that he had done? Before he had gone to Albus, he'd done awful, reprehensible things. He knew, but he didn't know the particulars. The look on Albus' face, on Minerva's when they spoke in hushed tones about all they had done to him, all they had made him do for the sake of the Order was enough to show him that he didn't want to know.

"No," he heard himself whisper. "But I need them."

The young man launched himself at Severus. This time, he was ready, and he sidestepped, but not far enough. The young man clipped him on the shoulder and sent then both tumbling, falling into the river in a tangle of robes and limbs. Viscous memories poured over both of them and suddenly Severus was fighting to stay afloat while his younger self tried to drag him under, holding him down against the onslaught of memory.

Horrors surrounded him – men he had killed, women he'd brutalized. Children he'd terrified. Many had screamed, some had fought back, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Had more done so, perhaps he would have died before it came to this.

That was the answer. Severus looked up to his attacker, who had his hands wrapped firmly around his throat and was holding him under. In his mind, he could not drown, he didn't think. He reached up until his own hands were wrapped around his younger self's neck and pulled him down. The dreamscape abruptly shifted around them and the river deepened, swallowing them both.

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A/N: Rendered hopelessly AU or not, I decided that this was worth finishing. I make no promises as to the update schedule, but after searching high and low, I cannot, for the life of me, find the old files, so I'm rewriting the next few chapters from scratch. Expect four more chapters before this is done.


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